


en het vergeten

by Cellytron



Category: Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
Genre: Blood, Brainwashing, Death, Friendship, Gen, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cellytron/pseuds/Cellytron
Summary: "You know nothing, and that is why you are chosen." A mind, emptied by one of humanity's great monsters. A man, sent on a simple mission: retrieve the documents... and, if necessary, kill Lee Crane.





	1. Part One: Falling

“ _It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same—everywhere, all over the world, hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another's existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same...”_

 

 

_-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty Four_

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

You know nothing, and that is why you are chosen.

 

“...You know nothing of such matters?” he finishes, slowly and with almost paternal patience. He smiles easily. He is wonderful. You would die for him, as would anyone who counted themselves fortunate enough to be a citizen of the Occupied People's Republic.

 

Whatever you knew a moment ago, a year ago, a lifetime ago, you have now forgotten.

 

“Nothing at all, Colonel.” You hesitate and tentatively finish, “A few names.”

 

“Nelson, Crane?” he asks indulgently.

 

_Nelson? You thought it was Swanson._

 

“Perhaps...” You are on guard.

 

But he only smiles on you again,

 

“These names, you _will_ need to know them.” He nods at his attendant, an agitated, pale looking fellow in green. (The attendant won't last long with _that_ look on his face!)

 

“Forgive me, Colonel. Nelson and Kane,” you repeat. Your tongue is clumsy. Suddenly the urge to blink is overpowering. Your eyes sting. But The Colonel does not wish you to blink now, and that is how it is, and you will love it as you love him. “Nelson and Kane.”

 

“Crane, _Crane_.” The Colonel says kindly. He is your father and your mother all in one. Then he gestures at the attendant with one graceful finger.

 

“One more,” he says, and all is black.

 

* * *

 

 

“...Do you know what these are?” he is asking you. His eyes are dark green. He has papers in his hand.

 

You are thirsty. He wishes it so, and so you will love it as you love him.

 

You are silent.

 

“They are plans,” he continues, “Plans for a top secret _American_ project.” He spits the word, _American_. “Do you recognize them?”

 

“I don't...” Your eyes grow wide. You try to shake your head but, of course, The Colonel won't allow that right now either. “I don't know anything about...”

 

“Good, good,” he coos at you. “Very good.”

 

You want to be good. _You want to be very good._

 

“ _Very_ good,” he continues in a voice like silk, “For a vulgar, no-account thief caught stealing from one of my officers one night.”

 

His green-clad attendant's head pops up in shock, and for a brief moment, he looks as though he would speak. For a mere second, his eyes meet yours. Pleadingly?

 

The poor fellow will _never_ last.

 

“I didn't know that's... what I was,” you say quietly. “Did I cause you much trouble, Colonel?”

 

The attendant's face is iron.

 

“Oh, on the contrary,” whispers The Colonel. “You are just what we need. A thief! And one as filthy and common as earth.”

 

A thief... A familiar idea. Yes. Yes! Of course! You _must_ have been a thief! You wonder how you moved. How you looked.

 

You wonder about the pains in your back and your legs and your head.

 

You smile at The Colonel, and he allows that. And he smiles back. He idly pages through the plans, and then sets them aside on a metal table. He turns back to you.

 

“These are not the true plans, of course. Or, at least, not the plans in their completion. Our people were able to obtain the first several pages, which a few _clever_ people would recognize on sight.”

 

The attendant looks away.

 

“You, of course, do not recognize them.”

 

You smile again. _You recognize nothing but_ _T_ _he Colonel's superiority._

 

“But what good are only the first several pages?”

 

He does not ask you, and therefore you do not answer.

 

“We require the rest. That's where you come in, thief! No doubt this should be an easy task for you.”

 

He gives you a companionable shrug.

 

“We don't have much planned for you. A quick in and out of a hotel room. Hopefully without bloodshed, although we have planned for everything. Down the back stairs, into the waiting car. Child's play. How long could it take, thief? Ninety seconds?”

 

A long pause.

 

He is asking you. He is asking you to confirm his estimate. He has left you nothing but an empty mind, save for two names and a blind adoration of him and his cause, and constant dull pain. You cannot be sure. Of anything. _Ninety seconds?_ Is he right?

 

You long for darkness in this blinding white room. But blinding is how he wishes it, and you will love it...

 

He is waiting. You swallow.

 

“Yes, yes, about that, Colonel,” You mumble. “About ninety seconds. But I... I'm sure I could...”

 

The attendant suddenly turns away with a little gasp; he is trying to look busy.

 

“No. No.... no, thief. You are not _sure._ You are _sure_ of nothing,” The Colonel says calmly. And at once he is angry. “Fool! You are sure of nothing! You know nothing! It is your very nature! Will you not remember that?!”

 

Tapping sounds to the left of you, and the previously dull pain grows sharp and fiery. You cry out.

 

“I--!” you begin, but words won't come.

 

“I have little time left to me, dear _thief,_ ” snarls The Colonel somewhere on the other side of the agony, “And _less_ patience. Will you delay us _again_? Will you force us all to go through this entire lengthy process a _third_ time? Or will you _remember_?”

 

_Remember? Remember what?!_

 

“Will you remember, this time?!”

 

“I would do anything for you!” you sob pathetically. “I would give my life for you!”

 

The attendant makes a little sound.

 

“And so would any beggar on the street!” The Colonel snarls. “So would any of my men! That is not what I need from you, thief!”

 

The pain grows, and you shriek.

 

“Will you waste our time again?! Will you put your entire nation in jeopardy?”

 

You shriek again.

 

“No! Colonel! I--”

 

“ _Or_ will you remember that you don't _know_ _one damned thing,_ except for what I specifically have told you?!”

 

“Sir!” the attendant cries, all at once. He is looking at you with enormous, terrified eyes. “Sir...”

 

“What could you _possibly_ have to contribute, Berlitz?” The Colonel asks the attendant coldly.

 

_Berlitz? A third name. Should you know it?!_

 

“The doctor... we must...” Berlitz wrings his hands hopelessly, “We must! Colonel, we have to...”

 

The Colonel, strangely, smiles at him.

 

“The _doctor_? No, I don't think we will, Berlitz. I think we'll let the doctor be. Wherever he is, he must be dreadfully busy. Far too busy for us. And we are busy, too, aren't we? We've got our hands... _quite full._ ”

 

Berlitz's eyes flash with unmistakeable rage.

 

“You're a monster.” he spits. “You're a damned monster! And you're not _touching_ him, _ever again!_ ”

 

The Colonel only smiles.

 

From then on, things happen too fast for you to comprehend.

 

* * *

 

It may be hours later, or days. It may be an eternity later, but the pain has left you, and that is all you can think about. You are grateful to The Colonel, to your very core. He has made sure you recognize that it is he who brings the pain and it is he who relieves it.

 

 _Nelson, Crane, Berlitz._ Names that come unbidden. But he has told you all of them, and so they _must_ be alright--

 

The Colonel reappears beside you. He is tired, but he is patient.

 

“Berlitz's father once worked for me, too,” he says, drying his hands on a towel. It is as though he is speaking through you rather than to you. “A troublesome family, the lot of them.”

 

Now he turns his smile down to you.

 

“What do you remember of Berlitz?” he asks, almost idly.

 

“Green?” you murmur. “He wears green. He is angry. He wants... a doctor?”

 

“Alright,” he sighs after awhile. He disappears from your sight. Tapping. You tense up, waiting for more pain.

 

The pain never comes.

 

You are grateful.

 

* * *

 

 

“A clever little thing, isn't it?” The Colonel asks, gesturing just out of your line of sight. What he means, you couldn't begin to guess... but you are afraid of his wrath now. To love a man to the point of death, and fear him to the point of death, all at once. A curiosity. A delightful curiosity.

 

He is waiting for a response. You smile. Will it suffice?

 

It does! It _does!_

 

“Of course, you've no idea what I mean. But, oh... dear thief... to put Nelson and Crane, or their president, to this device. It is my heart's fondest desire.”

 

_You would kill anyone who stood in the path of The Colonel's heart's fondest desire, and you long to tell him so. But ultimately, you stay silent._

 

“If Berlitz hadn't been such a fool, it would have been his fate as well as theirs.”

 

You frown. Another name. Nelson and Crane. Now _Berlitz_? Is this a name you need to know? Is he the one you need to rob? Or your contact?

 

“This... Berlitz? Is he another of the Americans?” you ask, trying to sound as contemptuous of Americans as your Colonel had.

 

His response is a sudden bubble of delighted laughter. You smile widely, despite yourself and the dull pain.

 

And after a minute, you laugh, too. You can't imagine why.

 

* * *

 

“Lee Crane,” The Colonel says kindly, pointing at the figure on the black and white television screen. A handsome young man, younger than The Colonel. Dark hair, dark eyes. Curled on a shabbily upholstered bed (you know this because The Colonel scoffed at it; it was his hotel and it grieved him to see it so poorly kept). Sleeping, you think.

 

“An American?” you ask timidly. Though The Colonel has not turned his anger on you in some time, you remember the pain. And your body would remember, even if your mind could not. And so you pray that Crane is an American and that it is alright that you know it.

 

The Colonel merely nods, and rolls his eyes a bit. “ _Commander Lee Crane._ American. Captain of the Seaview. High in Nelson's esteem.”

 

 _As you long to be in_ _T_ _he Colonel's._

 

You briefly wonder what he means by “Seaview”, but like most of your thoughts (lately?), it flutters away as if on a light breeze.

 

“...Yet Crane is such a fool that he doesn't know of the camera hidden in the room.” He smiles cunningly down at you.

 

You smile back, lightheadedly.

 

“Nelson is scheduled to contact him in a few moments,” The Colonel informs you. “At 0328 hours.”

 

Of course you don't know how long it will be until it is 0328 hours. You know neither the hour, the minute, the day, or the year. But as The Colonel promised, a moment later Crane is sitting up as though he were never sleeping at all, pulling an antenna out of what you can only assume is a communication device of some sort.

 

“Ah,” breathes The Colonel. “Here... is Nelson now.”

 

“Cookie Cutter Alpha, this is the Bakery. This channel is secure. Cookie Cutter Alpha, come in,” crackles a voice from the communication device.

 

Crane smirks for a moment, then confirms, “Cookie Cutter Alpha, I read you, Bakery.”

 

It is nothing but gibberish to you, but The Colonel rolls his eyes.

 

“They fool only themselves,” he sighs in explanation. He is leaning against your bed (more of a table, really) and you are keenly aware of his idle hand just inches from your shoulder.

 

_You want..._

 

Nelson's crackling voice has a smile in it as he asks, “How are you holding up in the, ah, lap of luxury, Lee?”

 

Crane smiles brilliantly.

 

“Oh, I couldn't ask for better accommodations. I really couldn't. No one in this place understands a word I'm saying. They all speak English, but apparently I don't.”

 

A crackling chuckle.

 

“Yes, well, you have a floor, at least?” Nelson asks.

 

“Oh, a great one, too. I can see right through it in a few places.”

 

“Well, that just shows how much they like you. They gave you a room with a view.”

 

The two men laugh a little, but Crane's face darkens a bit.

 

“Say, uh, Bakery,” Crane says seriously, “There's one thing that, well... kind of worries me.”

 

“What is it?” asks Nelson, instantly serious.

 

“You say I'm to meet the doctor's aide tomorrow morning.”

 

“Yes, that's right, a young fellow. Glasses, red hair. You'll know him right away.” Nelson pauses. “We've discussed that.”

 

“Right, we have. But... it seems to me, something as important as this... why wouldn't the doctor come himself? Why all this... mystery?”

 

The Colonel tenses up a bit. You glance at him and try to smile reassuringly. Whatever they're talking about, it must be important. You studiously forget every word, of course, but it is clear The Colonel cannot.

 

“Ah, well, that's easy, Lee,” Nelson says confidently. “Doctor Weber is an old friend of mine, we go way back. But he's, ah... a bit eccentric. He doesn't make friends easily and he doesn't go out much, particularly now. He has a magnificent mind, but...”

 

Lee nodded. “Do you think this is all on the level?”

 

“Well, I just spoke to the man a few hours ago, Lee. And he apologized. Profusely. He promised to meet me just as soon as he could get away, so we could make plans to get him out of the country. He seemed well. As well as he ever seems. His aide is a dependable person. And you'll want to look like you're very happy to see him, Lee. After all, he's your long lost friend.”

 

“I understand. Still... to just hand over his life's work like it was nothing, and to stay behind? Even for a day? If he's found out...”

 

“Well, he's seeing his country crumbling around him, and he knows it's the best way for him to...” Nelson sighs. “Fight back. While he still can. He's willing to risk it.”

 

Lee nods.

 

“It's a selfless act. He must be a remarkable man. It's a shame his country won't see him that way.”

 

“Well, a country is made up of all sorts of people, Lee. Even one like the Occupied People's Republic.”

 

The Colonel gets up, paces a bit. He rubs his face in irritation. He mutters for a bit. Your attention is all on him, and as a result, whatever is going on on that screen immediately becomes irrelevant.

 

“All sorts of people...” The Colonel snarls. “Yes, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, _Doctor?_ Working with those damned Americans behind my back. I'd tell them what sort of person you were, Doctor, if it wouldn't make me sick even to think about it!”

 

Naturally, you don't know who this doctor is... Only that he makes The Colonel angry. And so you hate him.

 

_You hate him._

 

“Alright, so, I'm sending Mr. Morton to the rendezvous point, you're to meet him at 0835,” Nelson was saying.

 

 _Morton?_ Another name. _Crane Lee Nelson Weber Morton._

 

You look at The Colonel, and he nods a bit.

 

“Yes, yes, yes, Morton, another American. He won't be a problem for us.”

 

_Should you know his name then?_

 

“I'm looking forward to it, Bakery,” Crane says happily. “I am really, really looking forward to it.”

 

“Well, I'll, ah, let you get back to enjoying your vacation, Cookie. See you tomorrow.”

 

Crane snickers.

 

“Good night, Bakery. And whoever came up with these awful codenames, I want them on report! Cookie Cutter Alpha out.”

 

More laughter.

 

“I don't blame you. Bakery out.”

 

Crane lies back on the bed, sighs deeply, and then goes still. The Colonel turns back to you and smiles.

 

“You will remember his face? Crane's?”

 

You hesitate. You hesitate too long, and you become afraid.

 

But his smile does not falter.

 

“It is... your duty, to remember Crane's face, thief.”

 

And so you whisper your assent.

 

“Excellent. You are a quick study. You have a good mind,” The Colonel says, grinning widely. “You must have been quite _brilliant_ in your previous line of work.”

 

“I don't know, Colonel,” you say sheepishly. “I can't remember a thing...”

 

He turns flashing eyes on you.

 

“No. You can't.”

 

* * *

 

When you are free of the (table?) bed, you are quite numb. You are outwardly uninjured; legs and arms intact, but the pain refuses to fade. You wonder how on earth you are going to make it to the doorway ten feet away from you, let alone carry out this important mission.

 

You are a common, vulgar thief. It is what The Colonel said, and thus it is so.

 

But he spared you from the common and vulgar death which would become such a thief. He brought you to him, he prepared you for an important mission. He _spared_ you. You owe him everything.

 

The (bed?) table is gleaming, polished metal. Your curiosity gets the better of you and you lean over the side and regard the reflection.

 

Distorted though it may be, it is your face.

 

But it is the face of a stranger. It moves as you move, it blinks when you blink, but you recognize nothing.

 

You breathe deeply.

 

The Colonel wishes it so.

 

The Colonel is in the corner, idly gazing at the screen. Crane is still sleeping. It is just barely daybreak.

 

You are dizzy. You squint a bit and you see Crane, innocent and somnolent, and the darkened look on The Colonel's face.

 

All at once you long to kill Crane. You long to destroy him. You long to throttle him until he stops moving. You long to kick him, punch him, bite him. Bring his limp, battered, broken body in and drop it at the feet of The Colonel like a cat delivering prey to his master.

 

It is not part of your mission, not part of your _duty_. But the urge is nearly enough to knock you over. For you will meet this man within a few hours. You will encounter him in a hotel room. You will rob him. He might resist. You might fight with him.

 

_You might shoot him._

 

_You might do more._

 

_For your Colonel._

 

“ _Hopefully without bloodshed, although we have planned for everything,” The Colonel had said._

 

_Everything!_

 

You are ambitious. You have been asleep for what seems to be a very, very long time, and standing up and stretching is doing wonders for your spirits. You smile unguardedly at The Colonel, who still hasn't turned your way.

 

You owe The Colonel _everything._

 

When he finally looks at you, he smiles a little, turns, and pours you a cup of coffee.

 

“We have a little time yet,” he says personably. “I hope you are well, dear thief.”

 

“Colonel, I cannot properly express my gratitude--” you stumble over the words. “For...”

 

“Yes, yes, drink the coffee, before it gets cold!” he says heartily. “Silly thief!”

 

And so you sip it. It is deep black, bitter and tarry. It is prepared the way The Colonel likes it and therefore, it is the way you like it.

 

“It is wonderful,” you say shyly.

 

The Colonel turns back to the screen.

 

“Crane is formidable,” he muses. “He won't go down without a fight.”

 

_As though he read your mind!_

 

“But _you_ are formidable too. You may not know much, little thief, but you do know how to fight. Did I tell you the condition my officer was in when you left him?”

 

You look down at your hands. They feel weak. Your legs barely hold you. Your head pounds constantly. You are formidable?

 

“No, Colonel, you didn't,” you answer.

 

“Dead!” he laughs merrily.

 

A chill runs down your spine, followed by a rush of nausea.

 

_You have killed before._

 

“The fool. It was his fault, really,” The Colonel snorts. “A trinket given to him by his mother. Worth _dying_ for? What an imbecile. There are always other trinkets. As _you_ well know! You had to give it up, too, when six of my other men finally knocked you down.”

 

_Finally?!_

 

“I wonder if you even know why you wanted it? What could you have gotten for it?”

 

“I don't know, Colonel. I don't remember anything.”

 

_Except Crane and Nelson._

 

“Well, in any case, you might have to kill Crane,” The Colonel shrugs. “Or you might not.”

 

You realize at that moment that you have resolved to kill Crane whether the situation demands it or not.

 

He sets down his coffee.

 

“My men are getting everything ready. We'll begin instructing you soon. Dear thief, if there is anything you wish to say now, freely and without any fear, you may. You may speak your mind. It will not leave this room.”

 

_What is there to say? What could you possibly say?_

 

“Thank you, Colonel, for everything. I owe you my life...” you begin.

 

And unbelievably, The Colonel rolls his eyes.

 

“Oh, off your knees. Enough groveling. Speak your _MIND,_ you imbecile. What little there is of it.”

 

You don't know what he wants you to say. You don't know what he wants to hear.

 

_You don't know what is in your own mind._

 

But then you smile a little, and raise your eyes to meet his.

 

“I want to kill Crane. And Nelson too. For you, Colonel. I want to bring them to you!”

 

He half-smiles back. It is not the overjoyed reaction you were hoping for, and your innards go cold.

 

“How sweet,” he mutters. “Is that all?”

 

You stumble.

 

“I-I don't know. I can't remember anything else...”

 

He grins widely, and then claps you on the shoulder as if you were lifelong friends.

 

“And that's alright. That is fine. All you need remember, sweet little murderous thief, is that if you don't return with those documents, you will face the longest and most unpleasant death my scientists can devise for you. You will _wish_ that I had let you die as a worthless thief in the gutter.”

 

His hand on your shoulder is as heavy as lead. You stare at him. Then after a moment, he laughs. And then, after another moment, you force yourself to laugh, too.

 

* * *

 

You are to allow the doctor's aide to deliver the papers to Crane. You are to do nothing to stop the delivery. You will watch it from across the road, make sure it takes place.

 

You cannot help but raise an eyebrow. _Would it not be easier--_

 

The Colonel laughs, as if he has read your thoughts.

 

_(He probably has-)_

 

“Dear thief, it is not as though I rule this entire country yet. Only bits and pieces! In broad daylight, found robbing a man of his property, you might well find yourself dealing with this country's police force! And when you were released from their feeble grasp, and back in mine...”

 

He needn't finish the sentence. He only smiles at you.

 

“And this is the master key for my humble little inn,” he hands you a rusty key on a filthy string. “It will open any door in the place. You're to enter Crane's room before he returns and lock the door behind you. Catch him napping, as it were. You will have only a minute or so. Perhaps... _ninety seconds_?”

 

He says “ninety seconds” with great care. And you ache all over. And the man you saw reflected in the table... was not a young man.

 

Each step is a torment, though you mustn't admit it to The Colonel. The Colonel says you are as fit as a fiddle, and so you must be.

 

_You mustn't doubt._

 

“Ninety seconds,” you confirm.

 

He continues,

 

“Leave him unconscious if you can. Dead if you must.”

 

_Oh... he will be dead. You have sworn it to yourself._

 

“And this,” The Colonel points at one of his men, “Is Bjordahl. One of my finest. He will take the documents off your hands.”

 

Bjordahl is pale in skin, hair, and eyes. He is gaunt, with a large, ugly scar down one cheek, but he gives The Colonel the same gaze of adoration that you give The Colonel.

 

A kindred spirit, or a competitor? _Might you have to kill him, too?_

 

The black coffee churns in your stomach.

 

“Ah!” The Colonel cries, gesturing at the television, “And the sleepy little American prince awakens.”

 

_On his last day._

 

* * *

 

 

Bjordahl is silent as he drives through the crowded streets. Streets you once roamed, making a meager living off the misfortune of others.

 

The Colonel has told you so.

 

It will be hot today, you can tell already, despite the early hour. Bjordahl is sweating profusely. In truth, he looks quite unhealthy.

 

You wonder about his past. One of The Colonel's best men, but he looks as though he has just escaped from Hell much the worse for wear. He has a twitch, and he frequently grimaces in pain. And that awful scar. _.._

 

Your heart should ache for your countryman, you know that... but all you can think about is Crane. _The noises he will make when you--_

 

But all at once, Bjordahl speaks. Though it is more of a bleat. A high-pitched bleat, a panicked torrent of words.

 

“The Americans... They are scum! They aren't even human! Turn your back on one, and he'll murder you without a second thought. They torture men and women, they kill children. And they laugh!”

 

He breaks off and wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The car has become all but airless.

 

“-And they feel no pain themselves! You can beat them and beat them and they only laugh! They are monsters! They are... worse than monsters... _You can do nothing_...”

 

Now... _you worry._ Why didn't The Colonel tell you any of these things?! Crane may be only one man, but he _is_ an American! And if what Bjordahl says is right...!

 

“Can they be killed?” you exclaim.

 

He breathes heavily, and his eyes dart back and forth between you and the road.

 

“Killed?” It is as though he has never heard the word before.

 

“The Americans! Can they be killed?! Can they die?! _I must kill Crane!_ ” you cry. “I must! For The Colonel!”

 

“Oh...” he smiles a little. Laughs a little. _A terrible sound._

 

“Please, Bjordahl, you must tell me--”

 

“Oh, they can _die_ , the Americans. I have seen it! But they don't die like we do. It is horrible to see. They go down all at once, without a word or cry or a whimper. They show no fear, no emotion. And when one of them is dead, the others go on as if nothing ever happened.”

 

You shiver, despite the great heat in the vehicle.

 

“They are not human like we are,” finishes Bjordahl.

 

_No, of course they are not._

 

“How it must grieve The Colonel...” you whisper. “Such an enemy!”

 

“...Yes,” he whispers back. “It must.”

 

And for a moment, the two of you are united in your love for that wonderful man.

 

* * *

 

 

You take your position across the street, and _you see him_. You see Crane there, the man _(monster)_ himself. He is idle, careless, leaning on a fence. He lights a cigarette and looks about him impassively.

 

You are relieved to find that he is not a giant, as you had feared after your talk with Bjordahl. Indeed, he looks like a man, like any other man... but healthier than most of the men you have known (in the short time that you can recall).

 

Bjordahl's eyes are wide with fear as he watches Crane.

 

“The doctor's aide will be here in ten minutes.” It is all he can do to get the words out. “When you return, you're to give the documents to me. Immediately!”

 

“Yes,” you reply. It is as The Colonel said. “It will be my honor to see The Colonel's will done.”

 

The car is stifling.

 

“You will not run away,” Bjordahl whispers suddenly.

 

Your head snaps toward him, stunned. Run away? He may as well have suggested that you fly to the moon! _Run away?_ When The Colonel himself spared your life, gave you this mission, and is waiting for your return?!

 

_Run away?!_

 

“I don't understand,” is all you say.

 

“I don't know how much you remember, old man.” Bjordahl's voice is, at once, level. His eyes are steady. “I don't know what's going on inside that brain. The Colonel tells me it is all but blank now, but I wonder.”

 

He sighs, folds his arms behind his head. You unconsciously shift as far away from him as possible.

 

“But they won't save you, if you try to run into their arms, cling to their skirts like the coward you are. They can't save you now. And they wouldn't save you even if you begged. Not a one of them would save their own _mother_!”

 

“Who? Who can't save me? Who do you mean?!” you hiss.

 

Bjordahl sighs.

 

“The Americans, you fool!”

 

“The Americans?! What are you talking about, are you mad?! After what you've told me?! That I would run to them?! _What are you talking about?!_ ”

 

He looks at you as though he is already walking past you in your casket.

 

“I pray that you truly don't know.” And then he reaches into his bag and pulls out two revolvers, one for you, and one for him, in case you decide to turn traitor to the man who gave you everything.

 

* * *

 

 

The aide has arrived. You are ready to burst from your seat, but Bjordahl gives you a dark smile and a brief shake of the head.

 

“They will talk for a bit,” he says. “They are long lost friends, remember?”

 

Of course you remember. _Now._

 

_But you didn't a moment ago. And you could have ruined everything._

 

The heat has crossed from merely irritating into painful. The sweat is trickling into your eyes, a steady little stream. You roughly swipe at your forehead and try to slow your pulse.

 

“Everything alright?” Bjordahl asks with a mocking tone. “How does it feel, looking at an American?”

 

“How long?” is all you say.

 

He shrugs. Suddenly, he seems quite at ease. The gun in his lap seems to comfort him greatly. Or... perhaps it is the thought of using it.

 

Perhaps he longs to kill you, just as you long to kill Crane.

 

_You wonder if you can really fault him._

 

“The two men are the best of friends, can't you see?” he asks you with a laugh. “And separated all these years. Shall we rush their tearful reunion?”

 

And it is true, Crane appears to have been counting the seconds as he launches himself into the arms of the young aide. The two laugh uproariously, pat each others' shoulders, muss each other's hair.

 

“...Old sea-dog!” cries the aide. Crane laughs in response and the two cross to a bench and begin talking excitedly.

 

_Crane is an American monster with no emotions._

 

“Oh, sure, I'd love to see them!” Crane replies to an inaudible question. “Little Janie, how old is she now?”

 

“Not so little anymore. Fourteen!” The aide passes Crane a laminated sheet of paper that couldn't possibly be a photograph.

 

“She's beautiful. She looks just like her mother.” A delighted smile reaches Crane's sparkling brown eyes.

 

_Inhuman monsters._

 

“I thank the lord for that every day!” The aide jokes.

 

More laughter, and suddenly Bjordahl nudges you.

 

“Another moment or so! Open your door.”

 

You fumble with the door handle for a few lengthy seconds. When you finally get it open, it creaks so loudly you are shocked that Crane doesn't hear.

 

You have the gun. You have the key.

 

You are so hot you can barely think.

 

Your mostly empty stomach (save for the bitter coffee) churns.

 

You long to see The Colonel, just once more, before you begin. You long for his beatific smile, his silken voice, his absolute power over you and over everything.

 

_When you have power over yourself, you do bad things._

 

But now Bjordahl is looking at you in your panic, and he shoots you what must be a reassuring smile, though it mostly looks contemptuous.

 

“Don't be afraid, old thief. You're quite good at this! You've robbed some of the greatest houses in the country. You eluded capture for years! That's what The Colonel told us.”

 

“But... I don't remember being a thief,” you confess in a trembling whisper. “I don't remember any of it. I don't know what to do.”

 

He raises an eyebrow and begins stroking the barrel of his revolver.

 

“You get the documents.”

 

“But what if I--”

 

“Death by The Colonel's hand, or death by mine. Shall I choose for you now before we even begin?”

 

You set your jaw.

 

_No._

 

Crane is still smiling and laughing as though he was having the time of his life. But he looks at his watch and--

 

“ _I must kill Crane,_ ” you say. “I must kill Crane and bring him to The Colonel, I must--”

 

“Then now,” he snaps. “Go now. Now! _Now!_ ”

 

It is the last time you look upon Bjordahl as an ally.

 

* * *

 

 

You trip in the dirt. Your limbs are too long. Your mind is too full. Your stomach is too empty. You have no time for this and when you glance back at an angry Bjordahl, you flinch and wait for the bullet.

 

It does not come.

 

So you run.

 

You are quickly exhausted, and as you reach the back door of the hotel, you can scarcely make out the knob, let alone the lock.

 

You fumble with the key as though you have never used one before. _(Well, perhaps you haven_ _'_ _t.)_ Wave after wave of nausea assaults you.

 

_You feel very, very old._

 

When you finally open the door, it swings loosely on its dilapidated hinges and smacks you in the face. You recoil in surprise and nearly lose your footing. A pretty picture you would make, sprawled in the dirt outside The Colonel's hotel. Done in by a _door._

 

No, it isn't to be. You have done this before, you are an accomplished thief, you have robbed the greatest houses in the land!

 

 _(_ _“You're to enter Crane's room before he returns and lock the door behind_ _you_ _. Catch him napping,_ _as it were_ _. You will have only a minute or so. Perhaps... ninety seconds?”_ _)_

 

It will be easy. _It must be easy..._

 

But...

 

_ohhh._

 

* * *

 

 

You let out an agonized, irritated moan as you look inside and behold a steep set of maroon-carpeted stairs. And, though you can't comprehend how such a thing can be _possible_ , it is actually hotter inside the building than it is outside.

 

 _But you are formidable!_ _A_ _nd you must do as_ _T_ _he Colonel says!_ _And_ _you must kill Crane--_

 

And the door slams shut behind you, clipping your heel on its sharp edge. A tiny, insignificant thing, but you cry out. You shriek. You are a _cringing little coward_ but then again, the pain from before has never truly left you. And so now you find that your head is buzzing, laboring to process each and every little bit of discomfort.

 

_You are a formidable thief! The Colonel said so! But you aren't quite sure how... how you could possibly be--_

 

And then you vomit on The Colonel's stairs. But he will understand, _surely he will understand--_

 

And then, without any warning at all, your legs buckle beneath you. You fall first to your knees. And then you scrape your hands on the rough carpet as you attempt to break your fall... and fail miserably. The breath is knocked out of you and your upper cheek slams against the edge of the third stair up. Your vision goes white.

 

And you would as soon die as doubt The Colonel... but for a brief moment, as each breath is a labor, as you slump in a painful position with those hard, unyielding stairs cutting into your chest and stomach...

 

You wonder if perhaps... The Colonel might have mistaken you for another man.

 

_The Colonel is infallible! Of course he is of course he is of course he is-_

 

but you _cannot_ be the man he says you are.

 

You are in agony.

 

You were not _made_ for this sort of thing.

 

You are no master thief. You can't be.

 

 _For y_ _ou_ are merely a _n old,_

 

sick,

 

feeble

 

_worthless_

 

man

 

 _who cannot_ _even so much as_ _make_

 

_it_

 

 _to the_ _damned_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“...You alright?”

 

A sincere tenor voice with what can only be an American accent.

 

Watery eyes roll slowly upward and through a curtain of sticky tears, you see a face.

 

But it cannot be _Crane_ who looms above you with a sympathetic, concerned look. It cannot be _Crane!_ No, no, no, it is The Colonel. Of _course_ it is The Colonel. You have looked up into the eyes of The Colonel enough times to know that it is him. You have spent your life, helpless before him. And he has done things to you— _for you._ Things to make you forget things you mustn't know. For your own good and for the good of all. Things to make you better.

 

_But not better enough._

 

He has brought pain and he has brought agony and he has made you grateful for it, and you wonder what awaits you now--

 

“Whoa, whoa, don't sit up,” says (Crane?!) “Easy.”

 

“Colonel, I...” but you retch again and slump back down, choking on the words. What could you possibly say?

 

“Shh, shh, shh. It's okay. _Colonel_ , huh? Your CO? Too much shore leave, a few things you'd rather he not find out about?” He smiles at you. “Well, my lips are sealed, don't worry.”

 

“No, no... _please,_ I have to...” you try to sit up again, but firm hands press on your shoulders.

 

“What you _have_ to do is get back to your room, drink a big, cold glass of water, and sleep it off! Now, do you have your key?”

 

_Key? Yes! Yes, the key is there, but why should he--_

 

You dangle it before his eyes, and he smiles again.

 

“I knew you would. Which room is yours? Do you remember?”

 

“I know the room...” you mumble through a frown. You are hot and you are stiff and everything hurts but a strange, fuzzy truth is beginning to take shape before you-

 

“Sure you do. You're gonna be fine! Listen, I've gotta catch a boat.” His smile is boyish and carefree. “And you've gotta take it easier on that stuff next time, especially in this heat! You're liable to kill yourself!”

 

“I'm... careful, Colonel... I'm very careful...”

 

“Well, act like it next time!”

 

A friendly clap on the knee, another brilliant smile, and he turns and trots down the rest of those maroon stairs and out the door.

 

And you realize in a flash that _you have let Crane get away with the documents._

 

 _Y_ _ou IDIOT!_

 

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Part Two: Sinking

Two deaths await you. A quick one at the hands of Bjordahl, an excruciating one at the hands of your Colonel.

 

No. _There must be another way._

 

Bjordahl is waiting by the door. He has pulled the car around, parked it at an extreme and dangerous angle. His eyes are wide, wild and terrified. He looks at you uncomprehendingly.

 

“What have you done?!” he yells. “ _What have you done?!_ That was Crane, you fool!”

 

“Where did he go?!” you demand. You don't even know how long you were unconscious. The world is spinning. The sun is brighter than it has ever been before.

 

“ _You let him escape!_ Where are the documents?!”

 

“Which way did he go?!”

 

“ _WHERE ARE THE DOCUMENTS?!_ ” he roars and pulls his gun. “It's my head as well as yours, thief!”

 

“They are with Crane! Which way did he go?!”

 

You are deafened by the sound of his gun firing. He is a poor shot in his rage, the bullet shatters a window ten feet from you.

 

“No, that's better. That's better. I will leave you alive,” he says shakily. “I will leave you alive, _in pieces,_ but living, and let The Colonel have the rest of you. But this was _my_ last chance, thief!”

 

You try to steady your breathing. Yes, yes, it was Bjordahl's last chance as well as your own. But you can save him as well as yourself. You can stop this.

 

“Bjordahl, yes, yes. But it's alright! You must help me! Please! Which way did he go?! We'll find him together, we'll claim the documents together--”

 

Bjordahl cannot hear you anymore. He is wild with rage and terror, he is mumbling to himself.

 

“ _He won't get his hands on me again! He won't get his hands on me again... He won't...”_

 

“Bjordahl, please! Stop it! I must kill Crane! You have to help me!”

 

“Do you hear me, _thief?!_ He won't get his hands on _me_...!”

 

He fires in your direction again, and without another word you begin to run. As Bjordahl had predicted earlier, you begin to _run away_ toward the Americans, and thus toward salvation. It is not truly a run, more of a painful hop. But you go down the road.

 

You pray you are following Crane. He was on foot, he couldn't be going far.

 

Oh, good merciful lord, he _couldn't_ have gone too far--

 

You hear another shot from Bjordahl and your head whips around.

 

But his aim is better this time, at such close range. He drops to the ground, disappearing behind the car.

 

_And now you are alone._

 

* * *

 

 

_Boat boat boat boat boat boat boat boat boat he said boat he said boat he said boat he said boat he said boat he said he had to catch a goddamned boat!_

 

Could fortune truly be so cruel to you a second time?! Would you reach the water, the abandoned, gleaming white beach, and gaze out upon the empty gray sea without a boat in sight?!

 

What else could he have meant? Where did boats go? A pier? A dock? A bathtub?! A damned swimming pool?!

 

As you cradle your head in your trembling hands, pressing hard against your eyes, The Colonel's face is far away from your thoughts, replaced with that friendly grin of Crane's. _Crane, an emotionless American monster who would torture you to death and laugh as he did it._

 

You should have loved your pain. You should have endured it at the very least. The Colonel... oh... The Colonel! He put his faith in you, _in you!_ In a wretched, no good, common thief. And now Bjordahl's blood was on your hands. Yours and Crane's.

 

Crane would pay.

 

Perhaps you would not.

 

_But where in god's name is he?!_

 

The cruel gray sea is laughing at you.

 

* * *

 

 

You... cannot _believe_ what you are seeing. You grow lightheaded with disbelief and shock, and worry you are about to lose consciousness again.

 

You instinctively seek what little shade there is on that barren beach, under a lone tree which is mostly bare branches. You shade your eyes and peer into the pale blue sky, and there it is _again._

 

A bird. A bright yellow bird. A pudgy thing, rounded edges. Flat. A pancake. A pancake bird, high in the sky, blocking out the sun.

 

If you are about to lose consciousness again, you pray that you never wake again, because clearly your brain is _quite_ gone.

 

* * *

 

 

But as you watch, the bird approaches the beach. It is massive, and it can be no bird at all. It sails gracefully down toward the wide open beach, and as you gaze unblinking, it touches down upon the sand, neatly, almost like a feather upon a still pond.

 

And there is Crane. Crane, who had been _behind some_ _damned_ _rocks the entire time!_ You could almost shoot yourself for your idiocy... if there wasn't still a chance. A _great_ chance.

 

And now you see the bird for what it is. A ship. Or perhaps a plane. No boat... you wonder why Crane said a boat.

 

But you have little time to wonder, as another man emerges from the ship. Another American. A tall, slender, fair-haired man who reminds you a bit of Bjordahl.

 

...Nelson? Could it be?! Could you be that lucky now?! Could Nelson be meeting Crane to take possession of the documents?! _Your fortune was changing_ _indeed--_

 

You inch a bit closer, and your joints seem to have loosened. Perhaps the thief in you is awakening.

 

The blond approaches Crane. He has a small, professional smile on his face as he hands Crane a sheet of paper.

 

“Orders,” says the blond. “We're to rendezvous with Seaview and then return to the Institute right away.”

 

“Yeah, I bet the Admiral can't wait to get his hands on these!” Crane taps the documents. “We won't see him for a month.”

 

“Oh, we'll see him. We've got to come right back here and pick up Doctor Weber. Admiral says he needs a week to wrap things up around here, get safe passage for his aide and everyone else...” the blond trails off, taking in the scenery.

 

“Beautiful country,” Crane says wistfully as he looks around the beach. He doesn't see you, though you feel you couldn't be more conspicuous. “I can see why the doctor wants to save it.”

 

“Colonel Zimmermann wouldn't bat an eyelash if the whole island burned,” the blond replies.

 

_Colonel... He couldn't mean...?!_

 

“Well, we're not gonna let that happen. Come on, Chip, let's get a move on.” Crane starts for the curious bird-ship, but then turns back suddenly. “Tell me you brought food.”

 

_Chip? Another name. Another damned name._

 

The blond smiles at that, another brilliant American smile that masks a heartless killer who feels no pain, and would smile the same smile as he killed a child.

 

“I couldn't eat anything around here,” Crane almost whines.

 

“That's not like you, Lee. You feeling alright?”

 

_Lee, Chip, names, names, you were only supposed to know two names!_

 

“Have you ever seen a chef ruin steak and a baked potato?”

 

“Well, sure--”

 

“No! You _haven't_! You haven't, Chip, because you haven't tried to dine in that hotel! You come next time, you'll see!”

 

“Chip” raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.

 

“No, I couldn't do that, Lee. See, I've got to work for a living. I don't have time to go jet setting like some people.”

 

Crane laughs as though “Chip” had told a dirty joke.

 

“You're going next time. You're going to get the doctor and his aide out, by _yourself_ , and you're eating every meal at that awful place.”

 

“No, I don't think the admiral would agree to that. I have important things to do aboard the Seaview...”

 

“Chip” is stoic, barely smiling, but clearly teasing quite mercilessly. And Crane is enjoying it. The two of them start toward the ship again.

 

_Americans._ They make you sick, and now you feel yourself moving. Your hand is on the gun.

 

You wonder if you know how to use it.

 

You are upon them, your weapon drawn, your heart pounding in your chest.

 

“Chip” notices you first. His eyes widen, and he quietly says, “Lee.”

 

Crane turns around, and he looks you up and down as though you were some kind of curious creature. Then his eyes fill with recognition.

 

“The man from the hotel,” he says by way of greeting. “This wasn't what I meant when I said go get some rest.”

 

“Crane,” you snarl. “Give me those documents.”

 

Crane and “Chip” glance at each other.

 

“Now, what are you talking about? What documents?” Crane asks easily.

 

“You know what documents!” you scream. Your voice cracks. “You damn well know what documents! The documents you got from Weber's aide!”

 

Crane is stunned.

 

“Who are you?” he demands, all friendliness gone. His true American face.

 

You don't... _know_ your name, and this discovery takes you aback a little. But The Colonel has not seen fit to give you a name, save for “thief”, and therefore...

 

“I am an agent of The Colonel. He has sent me to retrieve the documents. I failed once, but I will not fail him again!”

 

“ _The Colonel_? Colonel Zimmermann?”

 

“Shut up, _American!_ ” I spit. “You aren't fit to speak his name!”

 

Crane looks at you with something almost like pity, and crosses his arms. He is in complete control of the situation, and you feel impotent.

 

“Give them to me and I might let you live,” you lie in a shaking voice.

 

“I'm not giving you a damn thing,” Crane says. “And I can't imagine you could take them from me, either. You look like a stiff wind could blow you over. You look like you haven't eaten or slept in weeks. What kind of monster do you work for, anyway, to treat his men like that?”

 

_Monster?! That he, he, an AMERICAN! That he would dare to call your Colonel--_

 

Your body floods with fury. Without thinking, you raise the gun and fire. You mean to kill him. You mean to shoot him dead center between the eyes. But as you had feared, you do not know how to use the gun after all, and the bullet goes flying off god knows where.

 

“Chip” moves to tackle you, but you point the gun at his chest and glare.

 

“Nelson?” you ask him through gritted teeth.

 

He frowns, glances at Crane. He is as cool as could be. The man has a gun to his heart and he doesn't even sweat.

 

_Bjordahl was right._

 

“What do you mean?” asks Crane.

 

“Nelson! Is he Nelson?!” you bellow.

 

“No, I'm not Nelson,” the blond says. But he volunteers no further information.

 

Before you know what you are saying, you cry,

 

“Then take me to Nelson!”

 

“You're in no position to be making demands,” Crane tells you. Also cool. You are about to kill his comrade, his friend, and it seems as though he couldn't care less.

 

_Well, of course he doesn't. He is one of them._

 

But you try again,

 

“I'll kill him! I'll kill _you!_ Take me to Nelson!”

 

The two Americans glance, almost idly, around the beach, as if looking for reinforcements from The Colonel. How sad for them, it is only you.

 

“They really sent you out here all alone?” Crane asks in disbelief. A note of (pity? Not pity!) gives his voice a bit of a rasp.

 

Yes, you are alone. Yes, you are truly alone now.

 

_But you will do your duty. By god, you will do your duty._

 

“ _Take me to Nelson,”_ you repeat slowly.

 

“What do you want with Admiral Nelson?” asks the blond.

 

“My Colonel. He's for my Colonel! I must bring Nelson to my Colonel! I must... I must show him...”

 

You are saying too much. Neither of them know what to make of you. You think of how they would kill you, slowly, without mercy. You think of how your Colonel will do the same--

 

Then you poke the gun sharply into the blond's flesh, and scowl at Crane.

 

“I'll kill him! I'll kill you!” you repeat.

 

“Lee--” the blond begins, but Crane lifts both hands, almost mockingly, and smirks at you.

 

“Alright. You win. We're your prisoners.”

 

_...They are?!_

 

“You want to talk to Nelson? For your Colonel? That's fine. We'll take you to him.” He and the blond exchange a quick glance.

 

“He is for my Colonel,” you say with deathly seriousness. “As are you, Crane.”

 

“Fair enough. We surrender. No need to kill us.” He tilts his head toward the blond. “Now please, stop bothering Mr. Morton.”

 

_Bothering?!_ They think you a fool. They think you a pest. They think they have the upper hand.

 

But you have another name. Morton. Of course. That name from before. Chip Morton? Lee Crane? So be it. Morton and Crane. _Your prisoners._

 

You are decidedly unwell. The sun is making you dizzier all the time, and you are aware of caked blood on the back of your foot, pooled into your shoe, from that ridiculous door.

 

But you have the gun and you will have The Colonel's favor before long.

 

You are the last one to step aboard what Morton calls the “Flying Sub”. The name means nothing to you, nor should it.

 

A brief tingle of glee erupts in you as you realize what a _magnificent_ thief you must once have been, after all!

 

* * *

 

 

You wonder how many bullets are left to you as the ship leaves the ground. One for Crane, one for Nelson. And then you suppose you will have to force Morton to bring you back here. That will not be easy, but perhaps...

 

Or perhaps... perhaps... The Colonel would come to you?! Could you contact him? After your glorious victory, after proof of same, would he...

 

Oh, he _would!_ You are suddenly as certain of that as you have ever been of anything in your life. Your life, which began with The Colonel and would end with him.

 

But not yet. _Not yet!_

 

The sky grows more blue as you sail through the air, and you, in the backseat, with your gun still firmly in your grasp, smile brilliantly at the remarkable sight.

 

Crane turns to you with a bemused look, which quickly changes to surprise as he sees your smile.

 

“Everything alright back there?”

 

“The sky... it is beautiful...” is all you say. Then you force yourself to glower at him.

 

Crane raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Morton thinks you cannot hear him, or perhaps he knows you can, and means to taunt you. But for now, you might need him alive, so you allow him his idle gossip.

 

“We should have him in restraints.”

 

“No, I don't think so,” Crane answers. “He's as weak as a kitten. When I found him in the hotel, he was passed out on the stairs.”

 

“Made it to the beach in quite a hurry...” Morton glances at Crane meaningfully.

 

“Well, he thinks he has the upper hand, that we're right where he wants us. Let him think that. We _don't_ want to agitate him. We can't have him firing that thing in here, who knows what he'd hit.”

 

“One of Zimmermann's men,” Morton sighs. “It doesn't bode very well, does it? He's completely insane, Lee.”

 

“It's more than that, I think. His eyes, did you see? There's practically nothing behind them. And the way he talks...He's like a child.”

 

“I've heard stories,” Morton says thoughtfully. “Zimmermann's laboratory. You wouldn't believe the kind of things that go on in that place. You think he's been there?”

 

“I'd bet my life on it, Chip. And believe me, Admiral Nelson is going to want to look him over. And so will Doctor Weber.”

 

“Doctor Weber? Why?”

 

“Well, believe it or not, but Zimmermann actually used to be a colleague of Doctor Weber. They worked together for years. Some of Weber's research might have gone into our... _friend_ , here.”

 

You close your eyes. _Let them chatter._

 

“Zimmerman and Weber worked together?! If that's the case, then every day Weber stays put, he's putting himself in greater danger. Why is he waiting?” Morton's voice is still as steady as ever.

 

You open one eye.

 

“The Admiral says he has his reasons. I believe him.”

 

Morton glances over his shoulder at you. You open the other eye and give him a grin. He simply turns back to his console, but you notice a little shudder.

 

_It is beautiful._

 

The sky is nearly cerulean. You want to wrap yourself in this moment, embrace the sky and your victory and even these damn cowardly gossiping American swine. Your bliss is nearly tangible.

 

And then...

 

_it all goes wrong._

 

* * *

 

 

You are over the ocean, with no land in sight, when Morton says “Prepare for descent.”

 

Your head snaps up.

 

_He cannot mean--_

 

And a moment later, the ship pivots downward and the viewscreen is filled with the cruel gray waves.

 

Crane is calm, idly looking at the sheet of paper with their “orders”.

 

And do the orders involve suicide?! Or have the bastards decided to sacrifice their lives in order to do away with you?!

 

Bjordahl warned you of this. They are Americans and Americans don't value their lives the way you value yours. They don't value life at all, they will throw it away on a whim--

 

But the documents-- To destroy the documents as well?!

 

_No, no, it can't be!_

 

“What is this?!” You demand. You resolve to stay cool, in command. They are your prisoners, you remind yourself of this, they are _your prisoners_ \--

 

“What's what?” Crane asks after a moment.

 

_\--And you are a sorry, sorry warden--_

 

“You fool!” You scream. “What do you think you're doing?! You'll kill us all!”

 

Morton looks back at you for a second, but Crane places a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Eyes front, Chip,” he says reassuringly. “No one has any intention of killing anyone. We're on our way to meet Admiral Nelson like you asked.”

 

“By plunging us into the sea?! He's mad! Stop him!”

 

“I'm not going to stop him. This is the Flying Sub. That means flying submarine. Do you understand? _Submarine_?”

 

_You understand nothing but your rage._

 

This was their plan all along. All those little American glances. They were plotting against you all along...

 

But their actions make no sense! The documents will be destroyed! What of Nelson?!

 

Nelson indeed, what of _YOU!_ The Colonel will never have the documents! The Colonel will never have Nelson or Crane, _The Colonel will have nothing!_

 

All is lost.

 

_All is well and truly lost._

 

You shake your head, unblinking.

 

_So be it._

 

You finger your gun, remove your seatbelt, and take a deep breath,

 

_And you will be damned if they will deny you the one final pleasure of killing them with your own hands!_

 

Crane sees you and a brief flash crosses his face. He slowly removes his seatbelt and shows you the palms of his hands.

 

“You don't want to do that. I'm telling you. Put it down.”

 

The furious sea is fast approaching, ready to swallow you whole.

 

“ _All you had to do_ was take me to Nelson,” you say in a shaky voice.

 

“That's what we're doing. That's what we're--”

 

“You goddamned _LIARS_ _!_ ” you roar.

 

You fire.

 

* * *

 

 

You miss Crane. _Again._ You _imbecile._

 

The console explodes in a shower of sparks and smoke. Crane is on the floor, screaming curses at you. A moment later he is back on his feet, but turbulence throws him against the viewscreen, and then back to the floor.

 

You are also thrown backward, and a searing pain erupts in your lower back.

 

You are probably down to one or two bullets, and you can't see straight.

 

_Well... what have you to lose, really?_ You fire again. You hit _something_ , and are blinded by more sparks.

 

“Report!” Crane barks from somewhere above you.

 

“He knocked out the navigation,” Morton says angrily. “That crazy--”

 

A crash, and the deafening sound of waves outside. You scream and curl into yourself and wait for the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-The next thing you are aware of is the two men back in their seats. The viewscreen reveals that the ship, and you within it, are submerged. Panic rises in your throat and you pull yourself into a sitting position.

 

_Under the water?! It can't be--!_

 

“Crane to Seaview. Crane to Seaview, please come in.”

 

“It's no good, Lee.”

 

A clatter. Crane is on his feet, storming past you as if you weren't there. You watch him, fascinated, as he pulls open some sort of panel and examines the circuitry.

 

“What did he hit?” Morton asks.

 

“What _didn't_ he hit?” Crane slams the panel and opens the next one.

 

You pull yourself up again, grunting as you do so. Now you are kneeling into the seat, as though you are praying.

 

“Lee,” Morton warns.

 

Crane turns to you, and you cringe under his fury.

 

“Do you have any idea what you've done?!” he demands.

 

“You-you were going to kill us,” you answer feebly. “You were going to kill us all-”

 

“And so you thought you'd just take that little task off my hands?! We're dead in the water. We can't contact Admiral Nelson. Do you know what that means for you? For your _C_ _olonel?!_ Do you _care?!_ ”

 

_Do you care?! A fine thing for an American like him to ask!_

 

“Now, if we're very lucky, we might get out of this alive, in _spite_ of your best efforts. But you're going to have to be a good little boy and keep your damn hands to yourself. You think you can handle that?!”

 

He doesn't give you a chance to answer before he looks at Morton, raises a hand.

 

“Take care of him.”

 

You painfully leap to your feet, holding the gun in your trembling hand.

 

“Get back,” you snap at Morton. “And don't you move, Crane! Don't you touch a thing!”

 

“ _Chip,”_ Crane says irritably, as he turns to an instrument panel.

 

Morton is on you at once, and he is much stronger than his slim frame would suggest.

 

_But you... are formidable._

 

_The Colonel said so._

 

And so you give... _nearly_ as good as you get. For it is your life and your Colonel's dignity at stake. And in your rage, you get a sense for the common thief dwelling within you.

 

You blacken Morton's eye, and he staggers back. You hope, stupidly, that you have finished it, but then he slams you into the wall. You cry out, you _shriek-_

 

_You are a miserable coward who cannot endure any pain-_

 

But you still have the gun.

 

And as Morton reaches you again, you raise the gun in your trembling hand and fire your last bullet at Crane.

 

You miss, of _course_ , but you are rewarded with the sight of yet another panel erupting in sparks. You laugh as the blond's iron fingers dig into your upper arms. You laugh because there is nothing else for you to do anymore.

 

A loud, hissing _crack_. Morton turns toward the sound, and his icy blue eyes widen.

 

“Lee!” he cries in a voice that shocks you with its passion and urgency.

 

All at once, incredibly, he lets you go, drops you as though you were a sack of potatoes. You let yourself fall to the floor, still giggling a bit.

 

And then, you behold a curious sight.

 

Gray, then black smoke billows from the panel. More and more sparks fly out. Crane has his hands over his eyes. Not out of fear, but out of blindness.

 

Morton is at Crane's side at once, and he tackles him to the floor, just as the panel explodes.

 

The two of them will be burned to a crisp, you realize. And you, _the idiot_ , did not even save yourself a bullet. So you will burn with them.

 

* * *

 

 

But Crane, _the American monster,_ is still alive. And he recovers quickly. He shields his eyes from the sparks and the flames, and dashes across the small ship. He picks up a red cylinder and begins shooting a white foam at the panel. After only a few moments, the fire is out.

 

He is still alive.

 

He breathes heavily, rubs a hand over his face. He has a deep cut on his forehead, and the blood trickles down his face, around his nose.

 

He spots you.

 

_His eyes are on you._

 

_And he will kill you now._

 

He begins by dragging you to your limp feet and punching you at full force, directly in your jaw. Your head rings with agony, and you slam the back of your head against the wall again.

 

You feel blood trickling from your nose, and you grit your teeth and close your eyes as you wait for... _whatever_ _will come_ _next._

 

You won't resist, you couldn't possibly resist, paralyzed as you are with horror.

 

Within moments, he has your hands and feet tied. You wonder how long you will hold out under the torture.

 

_You wonder how deeply you will shame yourself and your Colonel._

 

Now Crane is across the ship, pulling items out of a locker. Instruments, you suppose. Horrible, cruel instruments, too wretched to name. The locker slams.

 

Then you hear Morton's soft voice from the floor. His tone is strained.

 

“...You alright, Lee?”

 

For a moment, your heart skips a beat. _Morton is still alive,_ _but wounded_ _._ _All but useless._ _And he failed, didn't he? Almost as spectacularly as you yourself_ _had failed._

 

_What will Crane do to him?!_

 

You aren't sure you can watch.

 

Crane immediately crouches at his side, and you flinch.

 

“I'm fine. Don't sit up,” Crane says softly. He echoes the words he spoke to you earlier. His tone is authoritative but caring.

 

_Caring._ _Oh,_ _but_ _he is wicked._

 

“No, no... I'm alright,” Morton says. He sits up, in spite of Crane's _(order)_ request. He cringes in pain.

 

“Where were you hit?” Crane asks. His hand is on Morton's shoulder, squeezing it tightly.

 

What will he do--

 

_(Never mind what he does to Morton, as long as he doesn't do it to you, you fool!)_

 

Because, indeed, the both of them seem to have forgotten all about you for the moment, and you try to find a more comfortable position while they're not looking. No doubt _it_ will begin soon.

 

_As soon as Crane has..._

 

Crane opens a large red metal box with a white cross printed on it. A gruesome and ironic box for a torture toolkit. But can you expect better from such people? He and Morton survey its contents.

 

The very _idea_ of it all causes you to laugh a bubbling and frantic laugh, that goes on until you mercifully drop into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

Crane and Morton are sitting side by side on the floor, backs to the wall. Morton's injuries have been treated, you notice. _Treated._

 

As have Crane's. And the two of them are now dining in companionable silence, as though between the two of them, with the greatest of effort, they could not put together one single care.

 

And Crane and Morton are a comical pair in their stained white gauze, and if the situation were different you could almost manage a smile.

 

You don't know how long you have been... “away”, but you are in the same physical position as you were before; a tied up slug with his cheek to the floor. Your wounds have been left to bleed freely. Naturally.

 

Morton cannot move his left arm, you notice, and he holds a metal cup in his right while balancing a sandwich on his heavily bandaged knee.

 

He has taken far more damage than Crane, of course. And you remember, with a strange mixture of wonder and nameless, faceless anger, how he threw himself into the explosion and knocked Crane to the floor. To _safety._ You remember how he did it without a second's hesitation.

 

Americans will kill without remorse, Americans don't value life! But here, impossibly, is an American who has risked his life for another without a thought.

 

_Why?_

 

And what of Crane? The commander of this mission, a mission now lost. And, make no mistake, Morton played his role in its failure. Could Crane be such an incompetent that he doesn't realize that punishment is in order?!

 

_Oh, that_ _T_ _he Colonel were here--!_

 

But Morton sees you now. His eyes are on you, unblinking, but with curious detachment. He lowers them at once, disdainfully, as soon as he sees that you are awake.

 

“Three more hours of oxygen,” he says quietly. “Thanks to him.”

 

“ _Him” means you._

 

“The admiral knows we're missing by now,” Crane says. “They'll find us.”

 

“In three hours?”

 

The lights flicker. Crane is silent.

 

Morton sighs deeply.

 

With a stifled grunt of pain, he sets down his cup.

 

“Well, I screwed up, Lee. I don't know what to say about it except that I screwed up... and I'm sorry.”

 

Crane glances at him, then returns to picking at his sandwich.

 

“No,” is Crane's curious answer.

 

“He never should have gotten off that shot.” Morton insists.

 

“ _He never should have_ been allowed onboard without restraints,” Crane offers in response, with a wry shrug. “Maybe we both screwed up this time. We underestimated him. We underestimated _Zimmermann._ ”

 

Morton shakes his head.

 

“I'm sorry, Lee,” he insists.

 

“Forget it. Chip. You saved my life.”

 

Morton scoffs, “Yeah, and now all three of us can die down here like rats.”

 

They both look at you. And... and you will be damned for thinking it, but... if you didn't know better, you might think that at that moment, these two American man value their lives, and each other's lives, as highly as you value your own.

 

_And none of it makes any sense!_

 

“We're not done yet,” Crane says firmly.

 

* * *

 

 

_You don't understand why they are keeping you alive._

 

Crane has finished his meal, and is now bent over a console with a tool of some sort, grunting in frustration. It sparks a bit, and Morton starts, as though to jump to his feet again. Only his pain stops him.

 

“Careful, Lee...” is all he says.

 

“It's alright.”

 

“Anything?”

 

A long sigh.

 

“ _Nothing._ ”

 

Your face has long since grown numb, and as you peer about you with your one open eye, it is all you can do not to scream. They act as though you are not there. The torture kit lies discarded in a corner.

 

But now, now, Morton is looking at you again. His eye has swollen almost closed, and you gaze at each other for a moment, a pair of near-cyclopses.

 

“Why do you prolong it?” you whisper to him.

 

He doesn't answer.

 

“ _Why?!_ ” you press, “If you have only three hours! Why prolong it?”

 

“Prolong what?” asks Crane, irritably.

 

“Prolong what!” you half-laugh, “Bjordahl has told me all about you, Americans! I _know_ how you are! You needn't put on a show for me! _What are you waiting for?!_ ”

 

“What _are_ we waiting for?” Morton asks you.

 

Morton. That ice-faced enigma. Hatred, _bitter hatred_ , churns within you.

 

“And _you!_ Why do you behave so strangely?! Bjordahl told me you Americans see life as having no value!”

 

Crane turns around at that, sets down his tool and crouches before you.

 

“No value? This... _Bjordahl_ said that? Does he work for Colonel Zimmermann too?”

 

“He _worked_ for The Colonel. He is dead now,” you spit. “His blood is on your hands, American! Do you understand?!”

 

Crane glances at Morton, and then looks levelly at you.

 

“If Bjordahl is dead, his blood is on Zimmermann's hands. No one else's.”

 

You would tear him limb from limb for that statement, but you are quite immobilized. You grunt in frustration, and all at once, collapse into tears.

 

“ _You will die for that statement!_ The Colonel won't allow it! The Colonel will kill you...! Colonel... please, find me!”

 

All at once you collapse into uncontrollable hysterics,

 

“Find me, find me now! _I'm here!_ I have Crane for you... I will take whatever punishment you have... Just let me see your face once more! Colonel! _C_ _OLONEL!!_ ”

 

You sob into the hard metal floor. And when no more tears will come, you wail.

 

They let you. They stand back and let you wail, they watch you with their cold and unfeeling American eyes.

 

“He's a mess, Lee,” Morton says quietly.

 

“That's... quite an understatement, Mr. Morton.”

 

* * *

 

 

They are about to begin. They have wasted time, yours and their own. But they are about to begin, at long last. Crane hauls you into a seated position against the wall. Morton is seated above you, giving you that same icy stare. He has a pad of paper in his lap, and a pen.

 

Crane is squatting with his hands on his thighs, sizing you up.

 

Your courage, what little there was left of it, is quickly leaving you. You sob, once. It is all you can do. You can produce no more tears. Your eyes are sandpaper.

 

You know now that you will beg them for your life. You know it as an absolute truth, as absolute as any of the truths given to you by The Colonel.

 

Perhaps you won't last long. Perhaps your (old) heart will give out at once.

 

_Please, please, please--_

 

“Now... the Admiral _is_ going to find us,” Crane says.

 

Morton glances at him.

 

“But... if for some reason... we aren't alive when he does, we need to leave a record for him.”

 

“I'm sure you'll be very thorough,” you spit.

 

Crane only nods. _Monster._

 

“Now, what... what Zimmermann _did_ to you... he's doing to other people. There's no doubt of that. He's probably making himself an army. An army of brainwashed, empty-minded children who would obey his every command and rather die than let him down. An army of people just like you.”

 

_No. Not just like you. God help The Colonel if his army is full of worthless imbeciles like you._

 

“We also strongly suspect that he emptied your mind so you couldn't testify against him. But we still think you can give us some good information. And... whatever you can tell us will help the Admiral and Doctor Weber stop him. Whatever you can tell us might save lives.”

 

_Save American lives?!_ You'd sooner die...

 

At least... that's how The Colonel would _wish_ you to think.

 

But in reality... you want to live. _Dear god above, you want to live--_

 

But you spit,

 

“I have no desire to save American lives.”

 

Crane replies, without hesitation:

 

“I don't suppose you have. But what about your own people, who will suffer and die under your colonel? Who are suffering and dying right now?”

 

You aren't sure... whether to care or not. If The Colonel _wishes_ their pain and their death...

 

And then... what about pain and death? The torture kit is still in the corner. You glance at it, then at Morton, then at Crane, then back at the kit.

 

“Aren't... aren't you forgetting something?” you ask.

 

“Like what?”

 

“If this is an interrogation, aren't you forgetting your... _tools_?”

 

“This isn't an interrogation. It's a conversation. Mr. Morton and I are going to have a chat, and we're hoping you'll join us. We thought we'd appeal to your better nature.” Crane pauses. “It's in there somewhere.”

 

“Oh, _stop this!_ You Americans torture for sport! You really...” you cough, “You really expect me to believe--”

 

You are overcome with a coughing fit. At once, Crane reaches for- _(the torture kit_ _of course it's coming now_ _)_

 

_-_ the box which holds their food supply.

 

He produces a clear plastic bottle. Unscrews the cap. Holds it out to you when you finish hacking.

 

“Water. Drink it.”

 

You are stunned. All you can do is shake your head.

 

“It's water. Just water. It's not poison,” Crane says impatiently. He tips his head back, takes a swig, holds it back out to you. “See? Water.”

 

Water. You want it. _Desperately._ Your thoughts are jumbled as you try to rationalize drinking this probable poison.

 

He holds it to your lips. It is cold. His eyes are kind.

 

His eyes are as kind as The Colonel's.

 

_As kind as The Colonel's?!_

 

Impossible.

 

_Impossible._

 

_It's a trick it's a trick it's a trick it's a trick it's a trick it's_

 

“You're dehydrated. You're in bad shape. Drink it. You'll feel better.”

 

_Feel better?! What should he care how you feel?!_

 

“Go on. Go _on._ ”

 

Kindly. Almost fatherly. Almost like The Colonel that very morning, urging you to drink that (bitter tarry black gritty _disgusting_ _if the truth were known_ ) coffee.

 

You may as well be spitting in The Colonel's face...

 

_And_ _God help you,_ _but you_ _drink_. You finish the bottle.

 

And Crane is pleased. He smiles at you the way he smiled at you on the stairs. He puts a friendly hand on your shoulder. You are too weak to flinch.

 

Or perhaps... _you don't want to flinch._

 

“See? Better, huh? You hungry?” Crane asks. “Mr. Morton brought enough sandwiches for the entire navy. He likes to come... _over-_ prepared.”

 

Morton, almost despite himself, smiles.

 

“Morton is strange, for an American,” you say. You almost _confide._

 

“What do you mean?” asks Crane. He is rummaging through the box.

 

“What Bjordahl said. Americans kill for sport. Americans...” you can't remember all of it. “Kill women and children... and laugh. They feel no pain, no emotion. Not one of them would stop to help his own mother as she lay dying in the street!”

 

“That's... not exactly right,” Crane says mildly. He begins removing a sandwich from its paper wrapping.

 

Morton is writing.

 

“It _is_ right,” you cry. The cold water has renewed some of your fighting spirit. “It is right! The Colonel himself would tell you! Americans are monsters, unfeeling monsters!”

 

The sandwich is on brown bread, thick and cold, with lettuce, tomato, cheese, and some sort of sliced meat. You could almost weep to look at it.

 

“Is that so? Well, what about it?” Crane asks you.

 

“Well, this... this _strange_ Morton... risked his life for you.”

 

Morton looks up from his writing. Cold blue eyes meet Crane's warm brown ones.

 

Crane smiles at him, and then turns the same smile on you.

 

“Yes, he did.”

 

“Why?!”

 

Crane looks at you for a long while.

 

“Because that's the way he is. And I would have done the same for him.”

 

“That can't be,” you scoff.

 

“Yes, it _can._ ”

 

And then he is untying your hands and presenting you with the sandwich.

 

And you... _you take it._

 

And you realize at that moment that you cannot remember... _ever..._ having eaten anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

“90 minutes,” Morton mutters.

 

“Alright.” Crane is steady. He hasn't retied your hands. He trusts you not to kill him.

 

You don't know how to feel about that.

 

But you gobbled down his sandwich, _shamefully_ , and you are still hungry.

 

_The Colonel would have you enjoy the hunger and the torment-_

 

“Now, Mister... we don't even know your name,” Crane says with a little laugh.

 

“I have no name. Or... _d_ _o_ I have a name?” you wonder aloud. “The Colonel says I was a thief of no account. He only ever called me thief.”

 

_Called. Past tense._

 

“But... I am proud to be called thief!”

 

“Thief...” Crane gives you a skeptical look. “Now... and you'll have to forgive me, because I don't mean any disrespect. But... you don't strike me as a thief.”

 

“But I am. The Colonel said so!”

 

Morton is writing again.

 

“What else did _T_ _he Colonel_ say about you?”

 

“The Colonel told me I deserved a low, common death, because I am a low, common man. But he gave me a second chance, even after what I did!”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“I robbed one of his men.” You look at him from under your eyebrows, try to look formidable, proud. “ _I killed him._ It took six more to bring me down. Only The Colonel's kind word spared my life.”

 

The look on Crane's face, one he holds for a long time, sends a twitch of irritation down your spine.

 

“Do you... _really_ believe that?” he finally whispers, as though you were the biggest fool alive.

 

Rage swells in your heart again.

 

“Of course I believe it, The Colonel told me himself!”

 

“Okay, he _told_ you. But do you remember it happening?”

 

Your blood runs cold. Crane sees the change in you, and he and Morton share another glance.

 

“Do you remember being a thief?” he presses, “Do you remember anything before The Colonel's men captured you?”

 

You cannot speak.

 

“Do you _remember_ it happening _?_ ” he repeats. Gently. So gently.

 

_You cannot speak._

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Do you remember it_

 

_happening?”_

 

 

 

Of course

 

_you don't remember._

 

 

 

 

_Of course_

 

_not_

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Here is what you remember:

 

The Colonel's rage.

 

The _agony._

 

The punishment, the almost constant _punishment_ _the LIGHTS the_ _PAIN_

 

_(“Will you remember that you don't know one damned thing, except for what I specifically have told you?!”)_

 

_The agony._

 

_The agony the agony the agony the pain the agony and all of it at The Colonel's hand and of course you don't remember_

 

 

 

 

_No, you don't remember_

 

 

 

_You mustn't remember_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_You can't remember_

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_ANYTHING_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I can't remember anything!!” you scream in a high voice you barely recognize.

 

Morton's head snaps up in alarm. 

 

“Anything!” The words flood from your slackened lips, “I remember nothing at all! I _know_ nothing at all, but my mission and a few names! _Other_ people's names! Crane, Nelson, Morton, Bjordahl! But I _mustn't_ remember anything else! I _mustn't_ remember anything except for what The Colonel has specifically told me!”

 

You are lightheaded, looking from one pair of stunned eyes to the other.

 

“You American _FOOLS!_ It's how The Colonel wanted it! He trusted me! He trusted me, and look what I did! And he will kill me now! He has to kill me now! Don't you understand?! He will kill me now, he will kill me slowly, he will draw it out for weeks, for months! And... and... dear god, dear god help me _I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER MY OWN NAME!_ ”

 

* * *

 


	3. Part Three: Drowning

 

The Americans are worse even than Bjordahl had warned. They were toying with you. _You_ were _their_ prey. They would deliver your broken body to their Nelson, just as you had hoped to deliver Crane's. Two smiling cats who held your tail under their paws and then sat back and allowed you to tear yourself to pieces.

 

And they dare now, to look on you with _compassion._

 

You want to spit on them.

 

You have betrayed your Colonel, betrayed him deeply. You have told these Americans with their wide eyes

 

_(the truth)_

 

_Terrible things, unforgivable things, untrue things, you owe The Colonel everything The Colonel is the most wonderful man alive you love him you love him you love him_

 

Morton has written it all down.

 

He has written _all of it_ down.

 

_You_ _fool!_ You let him keep a record! If The Colonel should have heard your prayer, and was on his way--

 

“Give me those papers!” you exclaim. You try to get to your feet, forgetting your bonds. You fall in a heap, but flail your hands in Morton's direction. “Give them to me, I must destroy them, quickly!”

 

“No, no, no,” Crane says. “No one is destroying anything.”

 

“You fools, you don't understand, when The Colonel finds out what I said--”

 

“It's really gonna hurt his feelings,” Morton says dryly.

 

“The Colonel _isn't_ going to find out what you said,” Crane assures you.

 

“Oh, _of course not_ , American! Of course not! How do we know The Colonel isn't on his way here right now?! To retrieve me? To retrieve the documents?!”

 

“No, that's not going to happen.”

 

“My Colonel-!”

 

“Listen to me! Your _colonel_ is not coming for you. We hit bottom after you shot out our controls. We are dead in the water, _on the bottom._ _Nobody knows where we are._ We have no communications. We can't send any kind of signal, any kind of message, to _anyone_. Not to our admiral, not to your colonel, not to _Santa Claus._ Do you understand what that means?”

 

“No!”

 

He sighs.

 

“It means that, to my knowledge, there is only one ship, on this _planet_ , who could get to us where we are now. And unless I am sorely mistaken, that ship is the Seaview.”

 

“Nelson,” you whisper.

 

“Yes. Nelson.”

 

“But The Colonel can do anything! The Colonel...”

 

“No.” Morton this time. And it is the finality in his voice, the flat, dark finality, that you breathe in. “Alright? No. _He's not coming for you._ ”

 

And you know deep in your faint, weak, worthless old heart that he is right.

 

And then... this awful, putrid knowledge is shoved aside by an even worse truth:

 

“But... Nelson... he won't come in time,” you realize. “And we'll all... be dead. All of us, together. Americans and... a common thief.”

 

Crane looks at Morton for a long time.

 

“It's starting to look that way,” he says at last.

 

* * *

 

 

Less than an hour left to you. The three of you sit in a semicircle, slumped against the walls and the chairs. You see a new emotion in Morton's ice blue eyes, but you can't quite identify it.

 

“Bjordahl told me other things about Americans,” you offer. _You might as well._

 

“You don't say,” answers Morton. He couldn't sound less interested if he tried.

 

“What else did he tell you?” asks Crane. He has taken up the pen.

 

“Well, he told me that... that you don't fear death. You don't feel pain and you don't fear death.”

 

“Well,” Crane says with a humorless little chuckle, “I'm sorry to tell you that Bjordahl was wrong about that, too.”

 

“Yes, well, I do see you are both in pain,” you say carefully. “Morton especially.”

 

Morton shoots you a sharp look.

 

“And... you bleed like we do. Although perhaps... The Colonel doesn't bleed. There's no telling.”

 

Crane sighs.

 

“He bleeds. I can guarantee that _The Colonel_ bleeds. He's just like any man.”

 

_Well, you certainly won't believe that sort of nonsense! But you continue,_

 

“But... we will all be dead soon, and neither of you are afraid. Bjordahl _was_ right about that.”

 

The two of them give you steely looks, all but confirming your statement.

 

“You have to admit,” you snicker, “Bjordahl was right about that.”

 

They admit nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

“How did Bjordahl die?” asks Morton suddenly.

 

And it takes a moment before you can recall. The sun was so hot, and you were so frantic, that you couldn't think about _anything_ in that moment, except getting your hands on Crane.

 

You should have wept for Bjordahl. He tried to warn you, he tried to help you, and he was high in the favor of The Colonel. _You should have mourned him._

 

But instead, you turned your cowardly back to him, and ran, as

 

“He shot himself.”

 

They blink.

 

“As soon as I failed,” you continue, “As soon as Crane got away with the documents. The gun was meant for me, in case I tried to run, but he...”

 

They exchange another of those infuriating glances.

 

“Why... why would he think you'd try to run?” asks Crane.

 

“I don't know!” you cry, “I don't know! He... when he was telling me about the Americans, he warned me not to run to them-- to you, Crane, and expect help from you. I thought he must be insane!”

 

You sigh and think of his scarred, deathly pale, horrified face.

 

“I suppose... I was right. He _was_ insane.”

 

“He wasn't insane,” Morton says suddenly. That strange look is back in his eyes. “He shot himself because he knew what Zimmermann would do to him. And he decided that a quick death was better. He took his fate back into his own hands. The last thing he ever did.”

 

You gasp a little. A million words in defense of The Colonel flood your mind, but they are quickly parted by the memory of Bjordahl's terrified yet defiant last words.

 

_(“He won't get his hands on me again!”)_

 

Oh, it was true. Bjordahl! A _traitor!_

 

“The Colonel would be so... disappointed,” you whisper.

 

“Why?” Crane demands, “Because at the end, he was his own man? Because at the end, _The Colonel_ didn't own him anymore? He dared to have a single thought that wasn't force fed to him by _The Colonel_ , and it meant his death?”

 

“Y-Yes!” you retort haughtily. “Yes! The Colonel... wouldn't approve at all!”

 

You fight the _(strong)_ urge to join in their incredulous laughter.

 

* * *

 

 

“...But why would Bjordahl tell him not to run to us and expect help?” asks Crane. He is lying on his side on the floor, his head propped up on one hand. “Why would _we_ help one of Zimmermann's men?”

 

They think you asleep. And in truth, the meal (painfully large) has made you groggy. You are facing away from them. Your legs are still bound, and the cramping alone is most likely what keeps you awake.

 

But to drift off into a pleasant, soft, well-fed stupor, and then awaken on the other side of oblivion... perhaps not such a bad end for you.

 

_But not yet--_

 

“Well, he's clearly no common thief,” replies Morton, who is lying on his back, arms crossed across his chest, staring at the ceiling. “Take away all the bruises and that nasty thing on his cheek, and add 25 pounds, you can see he's lived well.”

 

“Very astute, Mr. Morton, noted anthropologist,” teases Crane. Their guard is down again, now that they think you're out of the picture. “I came to the same conclusion myself, of course, though I'm just a layman.”

 

Morton smiles over at him, an easy smile, one full of affection.

 

“Not to mention his age, Lee. Common thief on the street? Making it at his age? He's fifty if he's a day. And if it would take six soldiers to bring him down, then I'm my own grandmother.”

 

Crane nods.

 

“So... who is he? Who _was_ he before Zimmermann decided to use him as an errand boy?”

 

“Political enemy?”

 

Crane sighs.

 

“That lab of his. What's he got in there, anyway? How do you take someone and...”

 

You roll over, and they spot you. They immediately stop their chatter, looking slightly guilty, like naughty schoolboys caught passing notes by a strict teacher.

 

“What nasty 'thing on my cheek'?” you ask.

 

“Well,” Crane frowns as he tries to describe it, “It's a scar. It's must have been... a burn? A badly healed burn. But it's still red, it can't be very old. A month or two?”

 

You had no idea. You only had the faintest glimpse of your reflection. But then you remember that Bjordahl had had a scar similar to what they describe.

 

_High in The Colonel's favor._

 

You play at nonchalance:

 

“Well, no doubt The Colonel's soldiers...” you trail off easily. “When they caught me...”

 

“I don't think so. If you want the truth, I think you got it in Zimmermann's laboratory....Can't you feel it?”

 

Your body has been in so much pain for so long that to isolate one single sensation proves quite impossible.

 

But The Colonel wishes _—wished—_ it so. All of the pain, and so you must endure... _you must love..._

 

“No,” is all you say.

 

Crane and Morton exchange yet another of those damnable glances.

 

“Look, we... we've been talking it over. Trying to figure out just who you are.” Crane raises a hand before you can speak. “We know, we know, 'a common thief.' But... we just don't think that's right. We think... we think you might have been an enemy of Zimmermann's that he, well... wanted to get rid of...”

 

The notion is so absurd that you laugh aloud. Despite having heard all of their idle schoolboy speculation, you are still quite stunned. And you can't believe that they really meant any of it, or _believe_ any of it-

 

“...And if Bjordahl told you not to ask for our help, we wonder... if you were one of our allies. One of the holdouts who fought against Zimmermann.”

 

_Impossible. What will it take for these fools to understand?!_

 

“I am a _thief_ ,” you say, very slowly. “And I most certainly am not turning traitor to my Colonel to fight for you damned Americans.”

 

“He isn't your colonel,” Morton says suddenly. “He wasn't your colonel before, and he isn't now.”

 

“Of course he is--!”

 

Crane rounds on you.

 

“He sent you on a mission that was doomed to fail! He wanted to get rid of you! He didn't feed you for days, you were so dehydrated I don't even know how you're alive right now. You were not a thief in your past life, and you were not a fighter, and you were _not_ a killer. You couldn't have been! You don't even know how to hold a gun! That man, Zimmermann, he tortured you, he stole your brain, he stole your _name_ from you... _and_ after all of that, he set you up to _fail!_ Those aren't the actions of a leader! Those are the actions of a petty tyrant who's tired of his new toy. Or one who hates his old toy so much that he wants to break it as slowly as possible!”

 

Crane reaches, incredibly, for your hand.

 

“ _And you owe him NOTHING.”_

 

You snatch your hand back from him, eyes wide. How _dare_ he--

 

“Look...” Crane tries again, more gently this time, “We've only got about fifteen minutes of good air left. After that, maybe 30 in emergency oxygen tanks...”

 

Unmistakeable fear flashes in Morton's eyes. _Fear?!_

 

“Well, we're... not optimistic about our chances. You know that. And yes, _you_ _know_ you did this to us. All of us.”

 

_...You did this?_

 

_Well, of course you did, you fool._

 

_You doomed the Americans (your prisoners, a laughable idea now, as it should have been from the very first). And you doomed yourself._

 

_Ah! But, you doomed yourself to a far more merciful death than you would have gotten from The Colonel, be honest with yourself! And you doomed these Americans with you! You should be proud, truly._

 

_But, then… The Colonel will never know of your sacrifice, and... even if he did..._

 

_(would he care?!)_

 

Crane breathes deeply, and then catches himself, realizing that breathing at all is a luxury that will soon be denied him.

 

_(Because of you)_

 

“But, _y_ _ou didn't know_ what you were doing. And we don't... we _don't_ hold it against you. We hold it against your… your monster of a colonel. You were probably a decent man. And that's why Zimmermann did this to you. A decent man had no place among his ranks.”

 

_...They don't hold it against you?!_ _Fifteen minutes from death and they don't--_

 

They are waiting for you to answer.

 

No, no… _No._

 

You will save whatever little dignity is left to you and remain silent.

 

Eventually, Crane sighs,

 

“Well, I just hope that... before the end, maybe you can get some peace. Maybe you can find a little bit of yourself that Zimmermann left behind, or missed somehow. And maybe you can be your own man again, just for a second, like Bjordahl was.”

 

You only watch him. Wait for him to finish.

 

“Mr. Morton and I... we'll die... as ourselves. We're starting to realize that's... kind of a privilege, at least where you come from. So, we...”

 

“Lee,” Morton labors to sit up. A sharp hiss escapes his gritted teeth. “The admiral, we have to write all of this down, the rest of it. He needs to know everything.”

 

“Yeah,” Crane grabs the notepad. He fumbles with the pen, drops it, it rolls toward you. You make no move to retrieve it. He rubs a frustrated hand over his face. “I wish we could... make a recording. So we could... tell him...”

 

“We don't need to, Lee. He knows.”

 

The two look at each other for a very, _very_ long time

 

And for the first time, you wonder

 

If you've made

 

 

 

_a mistake_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Crane is flat on the floor, hunched over the paper, scribbling out one endless stream of rapid, sloppy writing.

 

He seems to have aged ten years in as many minutes, and it is seemingly all he can do to maintain a neutral expression.

 

_He is afraid._

 

“Lee,” says Morton in a voice meant to calm, “Why don't you let me look that over.”

 

Crane half-laughs, and a bit of the fear leaves his dark eyes.

 

“What, you wanna... proofread my paper for me, like you always did back at the academy?”

 

Morton slides the notepad toward himself and smirks at Crane from under his eyebrows.

 

“Why not? Once more, for old time's sake. And, just like old times, I wrote half of this one, too.”

 

And though oxygen is precious, and every breath will end his life just that much faster, Crane erupts in painful bursts of laughter.

 

“Liar! Damn it, that only happened once!”

 

“If you say so, Lee.”

 

Crane laughs again, and then his gaze drifts out the viewscreen, to the uncaring sea that surrounds all of you.

 

“Yeah, it might have happened a couple times,” he admits.

 

Morton only smirks in reply as he concentrates on deciphering Crane's messy script.

 

“All these years...” Crane trails off. His eyes are moist, red, glassy. “You were always there. I don't... I honestly don't know what I would have done without you, Mr. Morton.”

 

“You would have been alright,” Morton says casually. He doesn't even look up from the paper.

 

“You never gave me the chance to find out.”

 

And now, Morton meets his eyes. A slight blush covers his pale face, and he shakes his head.

 

“It's been an honor, Lee. You know that.”

 

“It's been _my_ honor, Chip.”

 

* * *

 

 

_...No._

 

This is all wrong. Bjordahl... Bjordahl wouldn't believe this. These Americans...

 

_This is all wrong!_

 

And you think of Bjordahl, pale like Morton, but terrified as he faced his death. You think of Bjordahl alone, dead in that hot sun, his blood running in a river on the pavement and you wish

 

_(That you had had the courage to die with him?! As Crane and Morton can find the courage to die together?!)_

 

_You don't know what you wish_

 

But you wonder, once again, if you have made a

 

 

_(terrible_

 

_horrific_

 

_unforgivable)_

 

 

 

_mistake_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Chip,” Lee says, sharply, in a voice just barely above a whisper. He beckons the blond over to where he has been digging, with finality, through a storage locker.

 

Morton painfully staggers to his feet, hearing the urgency in _(his friend's)_ voice.

 

They don't want you to know what's happening, and so your full attention is on them.

 

Morton only looks in the locker, unspeaking, seemingly disbelieving.

 

“ _Two._ ” Crane finally murmurs.

 

“Lee.” Morton's posture has completely changed, he shakes his head briskly. “Where's the spare?!”

 

“I don't _know_ , Mr. Morton. That's hardly our concern right now, is it?”

 

“Lee, this is--”

 

“Take one,” Crane commands sharply.

 

Morton does so, and you see at once that they are talking about the spare oxygen.

 

“What's going on?!” you cry. Your voice is hoarse.

 

Morton can't move. He holds his oxygen supply away from his body, almost guiltily. And he gives you a terrifying look. As though he is looking at a corpse.

 

_Bjordahl looked at you that way._

 

Crane also looks at you, and he gives you that same compassionate look he's had for you (almost) all along.

 

“ _There are only two?!_ ” you shriek.

 

“That's right,” says Crane. “Chip, you better sit down, get yours ready.”

 

Morton complies quickly, without meeting your eyes. You are already dead to him.

 

And you laugh a little. _Americans,_ _they just can't help it_ _._

 

Crane extracts the other one, fiddles with it a bit.

 

You open your mouth to ask if, just maybe, one of them could...

 

No.

 

No.

 

You can't just ask something like that. You will die when nature wills it, you're afraid. And the Americans will watch you die, impassively, as Bjordahl warned they would do.

 

And then 30 minutes later, they will die together. You wonder how they will do it. Bjordahl said they would go down all at once without so much as a whimper. But now you doubt that. You wonder if they will die as any other man would die. Americans or not.

 

_It's all so--_

 

“Now, uh... you,” Crane says, pointing at you as though you are far beneath him. “Come here.”

 

“Why?” you demand immediately.

 

“Come _here,_ ” he repeats.

 

“...I can't.”

 

“Oh.” He sighs. “The ropes.”

 

He cuts them, giving you back your full mobility. It is little enough comfort to you at this late stage.

 

But you eye the knife hungrily. _Perhaps--_

 

“Alright, never mind. We'll do it here. Now... I want you to watch me. I'm going to show you how this works,” he says kindly, squatting down next to you.

 

Morton's head snaps up. His blue eyes are enormous.

 

“What?” you ask warily.

 

“I'm gonna show you how...”

 

“Lee,” Morton says in a disbelieving tone. “Why does he need to know--”

 

“I'm gonna show you... how to use this.” Crane's eyes are on Morton the whole time.

 

And he does, and for one in your state, you catch on quite quickly. You were a quick study, once. You were an intelligent person once. Crane said so. And he seems proud of you now.

 

_And it feels..._

 

“Alright. Good. You've got it.” Crane stands up, stretches, closes his eyes. “Now, uh... put it on.”

 

* * *

 

 

For a moment, the ship is so silent that you can practically hear your own heartbeat. When you speak at last, your mouth is bone dry.

 

“ _...What?!”_

 

“Lee, you're not serious,” Morton half-laughs. “Lee, you're... _Lee._ That's suicide.”

 

“Chip, it's more of a formality than anything at this point.”

 

Morton, the icy and impassive Morton, is fighting off panic. Badly.

 

“It is not a damn _formality,_ Lee, it's the difference between life and death! No, no, you can't do this. You can't-”

 

Crane's eyes harden.

 

“I'm in command here, Chip! Remember that?! Yes, I can do it. And I _am_ doing it. Both of you, put on your masks now. That's an order!”

 

Neither you nor Morton moves to obey his order. Your hands are useless and numb.

 

“Why?” Morton asks, his voice like a lost child's. “ _Him?!_ Why?!”

 

Crane glances at you.

 

“Because of what he knows,” he says simply.

 

“We wrote everything down!”

 

“Chip... there's more in there. There's his _whole life_ in there. And with what he's experienced, if he can remember it, he could be even more valuable to the Admiral than those documents.”

 

Morton shakes his head, staring at the floor. His hands are balled into fists.

 

“No. No. Lee, I am not going to sit here and watch you die, and not do _anything_ about it, while _he_ \--”

 

“Yes, you _are._ ” Crane's eyes are as fire, and you shrink from his sight. You scoot backward from Crane, curling your legs beneath you, trying to look as small as you can. Willing yourself to disappear.

 

“ _Lee!_ ” Morton cries again. He knows he has lost, and his eyes begin to fill with enraged tears.

 

_Tears._

 

Crane crouches down and squeezes Morton's shoulder. Morton cannot meet his eyes.

 

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Morton. Now put that on. Please.”

 

Morton will not cry. He most certainly could cry, weep, wail, scream, beg for life.

 

Not his own.

 

His... _captain's._

 

He _could_ do all of the things Bjordahl said Americans couldn't do, and more.

 

But he _won't._

 

“Aye, Captain,” is all he whispers.

 

* * *

 

 

Now Crane is sitting in the pilot's seat, his back to the both of you:

 

The American who has impossibly resigned himself to the unbearable, whose eyes are closed, whose face is cradled in his hands.

 

And the miserable bloody wretch crawling about on the floor.

 

Both given life at the expense of his own.

 

_This isn't right._

 

_No. No._

 

_This is not right at all._

 

“Aren't you afraid?!” you hiss at Crane.

 

Crane chuckles a bit.

 

“Fine question to ask.” He tilts his head back. “Yes, of course I'm afraid.”

 

“Then Bjordahl... was he wrong?” you whisper. “Was he wrong about all of it?! Are all Americans like you?”

 

“Of course not,” Crane says, with strange detachment. “We're all _human._ There are good people and bad people everywhere. _Everywhere._ There are people like the ones Bjordahl described in every country. And there are people like us in every country, too. There are as many kinds of people in the world as you can imagine. _People are people._ ”

 

“There are... people like The Colonel?”

 

“Yeah...” he shakes his head. “There will always be people like The Colonel.”

 

_And_

 

_People like_

 

_The Colonel_

 

_are_

 

“...Bad people,” you realize through tears. You would have rather bitten off your tongue.

 

And then Crane turns a sleepily satisfied smile on you.

 

“I couldn't have put it better myself. Now put your mask on,” is all he says.

 

* * *

 

 

_No._ _This is wrong._

 

Morton sees nothing, hears nothing. His eyes are wide and unblinking, enduring a torture perhaps even worse than the one The Colonel's best scientists would have devised for you.

 

Crane is idle, gazing out at the cold, dark sea. He leans forward, folds his arms underneath his chin. He is afraid, but he does not show it.

 

He _saved your life._

 

Perhaps only for a few moments, perhaps forever. He has spared you _(just like_ _T_ _he Colonel did or did he now you don't know anymore you only have_ _T_ _he Colonel's word on it but you have the proof of Crane's actions right here in front of your eyes_ _and you KNOW_ _)_ , an unworthy _(whatever you are)._

 

You did _this_ _to him._ You did this awful, cowardly, murderous, barbaric thing to him and he rewarded you with kindness.

 

The water. The food. The _oxygen._

 

_No,_

 

_no,_

 

_no,_

 

_no, no, no, no,_

 

_this_

 

_is_

 

_WRONG_

 

* * *

 

 

You stand up, and immediately regret it. Your vision leaves you completely and for several seconds your mind is blank. You are hotter than you have ever been before.

 

A step, and it is as though you are walking through an earthquake. Though the ship is still, you struggle to stay upright.

 

Another step, and Crane is aware of you. He turns around with the same look of alarm that he gave you when you held the gun on him. But the fear quickly melts into fatigue.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks tiredly.

 

It is all he has time to ask, before you echo his earlier actions on you and punch him square in the jaw.

 

_Fortunately, this time, you don't miss!_

 

He falls back, hits his head on the destroyed console, and in the low oxygen environment quickly loses consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing you do is find his knife. A good one, at least you think so. You doubt if Captain Lee Crane of the Seaview would carry a second-rate blade.

 

The second thing you do is settle Crane down into his seat, gently. He is bleeding a bit but still shallowly breathing.

 

_You could laugh as you imagine the look on The Colonel's face. Delivering Crane to him, in this vulnerable state. Alive. Oh... no wonder The Colonel only laughed when you said you wanted to deliver them dead. What a fool you were! Alive is better, alive is always better for that sort of thing. At least you finally realized it. It was too late, but you realized it nonetheless._

 

“Oh, Colonel,” you whisper, “You could have taught me so much, if I had just listened.”

 

The third thing you do is put the mask over Crane's face, properly secure it. You wonder if he will regain consciousness before the end.

 

_You hope he doesn't._

 

In any event, you will have to be quick.

 

The fourth thing you do is sit down in the other seat, just out of Morton's line of sight. You flip open the knife, examine the blade.

 

Yes... it's well constructed.

 

_It will do._

 

You draw up your sleeves and shake your head at the bony, blueish-white arms underneath.

 

You are suddenly hungry.

 

You suddenly wish someone else could do this for you because you are ready to vomit with fear.

 

You test the blade on the arm of the seat. A neat little slice puckers the black leather.

 

You sigh.

 

_Good_ _enough._

 

And you know your last thoughts should be of The Colonel, but instead you find yourself thinking, strangely, of

 

 


	4. A

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Do you see?” you rasp. You raise your hands, sticky and sodden with (blood) and you smile as widely as you can. You pray he sees._

 

_He turns away from you (no no no no no no **no** come back Colonel please after all that you've been through he can't look away from you now!), then looks back, as though in disbelief_

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 


	5. B

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _\--Weber?!”_

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. C

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _...hadn't heard from him in weeks, thought he was just being reclusive, as is his nature.”_

 

“ _And Zimmermann was able to do all that in just a couple of weeks? I mean, Admiral, the man was...”_

 

“ _No, I know, Lee, I know.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. D

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _...break the news to her-”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	8. E

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _...Just think someone he recognizes should be there when he wakes up, and since she...”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“ _No, I agree...”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 


	9. (            part                   four )

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

There has been someone beside you for hours, but you just haven't felt like opening your eyes. You haven't slept this well _(ever)_ and each time you roll over, you find yourself in another lovely reverie.

 

_Beaches. Fields. Clouds. The sky, as blue and crisp as you have ever seen it._

 

_A girl's face, young and sweet and loving as she gazes up into your eyes._

 

_More faces, faces faces everywhere faces. And names that are gibberish. Names you aren't supposed to know anymore. And that's alright, you don't care to remember them. You only want to stay right here where it is cool and soft and quiet and dark and_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Then he coughs, quite a few times, rather violently. Your eyes snap open in alarm.

 

You aren't bound, you aren't strapped down, and you must _run_ \--

 

“Whoa, whoa, not so fast. Don't sit up.”

 

_Those words again_ , those same strong hands on your shoulders, and you could almost cry, as you turn your head and look, once again, into the eyes of _(Lee Crane)_

 

Chip Morton.

 

“Easy, easy,” he says to you, as though he is calming a child.

 

_Chip... Morton._

 

He still has that black eye, healed quite a bit now. It is more green than black, and not nearly as swollen. Other than that and the cough, he seems quite well.

 

He seems _alive_ , and right now, that's the strangest part of that strange, strange American.

 

You wonder if you can speak. You don't try it, preferring to remain silent. _As if you had a choice._

 

* * *

 

 

Your mind is remarkably sharp as you put the facts together:

 

You must be their prisoner.

 

You must be aboard their ship.

 

_Nelson's ship._

 

No, no... you can't think about it. You were so close... _You were so close!_ And now... those steely blue eyes are on you and...

 

_What will they do with you now?!_

 

Morton's hands are still on your shoulders, but softer now.

 

“Just take it easy, you've had a rough time. You lost a lot of blood, and the dehydration was worse than we thought.” He looks across the room. “The doc will tell you.”

 

You still can't speak. But for the first time since you can remember, the pain is gone.

 

_Why?_

 

Clearly Morton is your guard _(_ _yet_ _you are not bound),_ _and_ you aren't to try to escape _(to go where?!)._

 

You let out a shaky, sickly laugh as you realize that, after what you have done to Nelson's men and his Flying _(pancake bird thing)_ _S_ ub, you are in for Hell.

 

They saved you just so they could kill you again. _There are men like_ _T_ _he Colonel everywhere, eh, Crane?_ Well, who should know better! Now you are aboard the ship of one!

 

And you laugh again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mind sharing the joke?” asks Morton as he sits back down.

 

You roll your eyes over to him. You are giddy.

 

“One would just think that... you and Crane would eventually get tired of killing me!” you giggle.

 

Morton frowns, and at that moment another man appears above your bed.

 

“Ah,” says the man. “I see you're finally back with us. Dr. Weber. How do you feel?”

 

The name is familiar to you, of course. _Weber._ An enemy of The Colonel's. And why this strange man should speak his name as he looks into your eyes is another mystery.

 

You allow the silence to become almost painful, and then you answer,

 

“Dr. Weber? What about him?”

 

“Doc,” Morton says in a low voice, “He didn't know his name with us, either. Zimmermann's brainwashing... He doesn't remember a thing.”

 

“Alright...” The _(doctor?)_ sighs reluctantly, “What did you call him, then?”

 

“There was nothing to call him. Zimmermann didn't even leave him with a name. He said the only thing he was ever called was 'thief'.”

 

The doctor sighs deeply, curses under his breath, casts his eyes upward. Then he crosses the room, picks up a _(weapon no not a weapon not a weapon)_ communication device, clicks a button.

 

“Sickbay to Admiral Nelson.”

 

Your heart rolls over in your chest and you turn a sharp glare at Morton. Would they really summon Nelson to kill you in your sickbed?!

 

Morton seems confused by your reaction, but doesn't flinch from it.

 

A crackling voice that you recognize at once as Nelson's:

 

“Nelson.”

 

“Admiral, Dr. Weber is awake.”

 

“I'm on my way.”

 

And that is all the plotting they do before Nelson arrives to kill you. You wonder if The Colonel would admire their efficiency.

 

* * *

 

 

And Crane is with him, _of course_. As soon as you look into those brown eyes, you resolve, in your newly restored state, not to let him see you squirm. It might even be possible this time.

 

Oh, if _only_ The Colonel had taken better care of you before he set you loose! You're almost at the point where you would have words with your Colonel if ever you laid eyes upon him again. American or not, Crane had had a point. He sent you out woefully unprepared.

 

The man who can only be Nelson crosses to your bed, and Morton moves back to accommodate him.

 

“You've made quite a friend in Mr. Morton,” Nelson says in his familiar voice. “He's been in here every day.”

 

Morton looks uncomfortably at the floor.

 

“The three of us went through quite an experience together,” Crane offers with a wry smile.

 

_Oh, subtlety, thy name is Crane._

 

“Yes, of course you did. But you're _alright_ now, Anton,” Nelson says gently. He puts one hand over yours. You flinch, drawing it back.

 

Nelson's expression changes at once.

 

“Anton.... Don't you know me at all?” he asks.

 

_(Anton)_

 

“Of course I _know_ you, Nelson,” you scoff. “I know your voice.”

 

Nelson frowns.

 

“My voice? Well, I suppose that's a start. How do you know my voice?”

 

_How do you know his voice!_ _What a question!_ But of course, Nelson cannot know how The Colonel spied on Crane.

 

_(They fool only themselves)_

 

You remember your Colonel's rage as he listened to Nelson speak. His furious outburst.

 

And all at once you want to spit in this American's face, you want to do unspeakable things to him. All your old desires flood back into you with new force.   


With a shrill voice, you announce,

 

“My Colonel knows all about you! He heard every word you spoke in that hotel! Every word of it! He watched you, Crane! He watched you sleep! And... and you _Americans_ didn't even know, did you?! He heard _everything! All of it!_ ”

 

“Hotel?” Nelson blanches and looks back at Crane, who has an irritated look.

 

“Well, that sure explains a lot,” is all Crane says.

 

But Nelson sets it aside,

 

“So you... you don't know how long Zimmermann had you? You can't recall anything?”

 

_(No you don't know how long and that's the way The Colonel wanted it and you will not let these men get the better of you again--)_

 

“Well, if I _recall_ correctly,” you say slowly, “Your _men_ took quite an extensive history when we were having our little... conversation.”

 

Nelson doesn't miss a beat,

 

“Yes, and I've read it, but it really raises more questions than it answers, Anton.”

 

You shrug.

 

“Then they should have been more thorough.”

 

Nelson sighs, rubs the back of his head. Crane and Morton have unconsciously shifted so that they are standing together.

 

“Anton, we've made arrangements to have Tiller and Anna and your assistants extracted, and they're safe. At least the ones we could locate. We should rendezvous with them within a day. But I don't know... if it would do more harm than good, for you to see them in your condition.”

 

_Anton. Tiller. Anna. More names, more names, by the time they finally got around to killing you, you'd have an entire book full of names!_

 

“But what do you think?” he asks.

 

You can only sigh.

 

“I _think_... you Americans waste altogether too much time when you're preparing to kill someone.”

 

You close your eyes, and refuse to open them again until Nelson is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

But the food is not poisoned. You know this because Morton _(your friend)_ tastes everything, without being asked. Without a word.

 

And it is delicious, and you can't help smiling, because god knows a few _(minutes hours weeks years)_ ago you never thought you'd eat again.

 

Your wrists are still thickly bandaged, which makes eating difficult (but not impossible, you would eat directly out of the bowl like a dog if you had to).

 

You are as comfortable and content as you have ever been.

 

...But Morton should leave.

 

If he would just leave, you could...

 

_(...What?_

 

_Plan your escape? Try to get word to The Colonel?_

 

_What could you possibly do?!)_

 

“Dr. Weber,” Morton says. And it takes you a very, very long time before you remember that, oh yes, that's what they're calling you now.

 

“Is that my name?” you ask coldly, knowing it could not _possibly_ be-

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

_Well, it is decidedly better than “thief”, you have to admit that. But even so,_

 

“My Colonel had _terrible_ things to say about Dr. Weber.”

 

Morton raises an eyebrow.

 

“I bet he did.”

 

You are both silent for awhile. The coffee surprises you; it is entirely different from the coffee The Colonel had given you. It is

 

_(wonderful just how you like it two sugars)_

 

...quite different.

 

“Doctor... I wanted to thank you,” Morton says suddenly, as though he has been all but dying to say it all afternoon.

 

He is graciously amused by the way your head whips toward him, and by the expression of utter bafflement you project.

 

“You want to do what?!”

 

“For what you did for Lee-the captain,” he clarifies.

 

What you did for

 

Crane?!

 

_...Oh._

 

Curious that he should word it that way, as it wasn't so much what you did _for_ Crane, as what you did _to_ him...

 

But then you look at him, straight on, and it is as if, for the first time since you arrived aboard the Seaview, you truly see him, truly recognize him.

 

And you whisper,

 

“ _Why are we alive?”_

 

He smiles a little and leans back in his chair.

 

“The cavalry arrived at the last minute, just like in the movies. You can set your watch by this ship...” his expression darkens, “But it was close.”

 

And impossibly, impossibly he... is _relaxed_ around you. He behaves with you the way he behaved with Crane.

 

...No. No. Not the way he did with Crane. But...

 

_(But something like it?)_

 

No, not something _like_ it. Something decidedly different.

 

But he behaves as though he were not your guard, as though he were not here, holding you until Nelson decided what to do with you.

 

He behaves like... _your friend._

 

So you ask your _friend_ another question,

 

“Were you and Crane conscious?”

 

“I was. You knocked Lee for a loop. He's still got a lump on the back of his head.”

 

“...Were you afraid?”

 

“Of course.”

 

_Of course._

 

_Like poor Bjordahl._

 

“I was afraid, too,” you whisper. You almost confess. _“I was terrified.”_

 

He nods.

 

He _understands._

 

* * *

 

 

You eat a bit more, and then Morton sighs, almost exasperatedly,

 

“I did the best I could with your wrists,” he says. “To stop the bleeding. But we didn't have many bandages left.”

 

You can only stare at him.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“After you...” he doesn't know how to finish the sentence. “Back there.”

 

“ _Back there?!_ What do you mean? You saw me?!”

 

“I was too late to stop you. You were determined.”

 

Shaking, you take another sip of your coffee.

 

“Well, Crane shouldn't... shouldn't have given that oxygen to me,” you manage to get out.

 

“At the time, I agreed with that. Before I knew who you were.”

 

_Before he--?! YOU don't know who you are!_

 

“It was wrong of Crane to...” you stammer, “And so I... but I was afraid, I didn't want to die slowly. So I thought...”

 

“You made a choice, and you were your own man.” Morton shrugs. “But I had to do what I could for you.”

 

You swallow, thickly.

 

No, he didn't _have_ to do a damn thing. But he did.

 

And you won't even bother to ask him why. You realized long ago _(that's just how he is)_ that he is the strangest man you have ever encountered.

 

And you think of him, in that hot, airless tomb, crouching over your limp form... and with the little time he has left to him, stopping the bleeding. Carefully (because Morton does _everything_ carefully) bandaging your sliced flesh. Saving your life.

 

_These Americans! Falling all over themselves to help you, again and again. Bjordahl must be feeling quite the fool right about now, if he's seeing this!_

 

“Well, I... don't know why you did it,” you say quietly. “I don't know why any of you Americans do what you do, no matter what Crane said. But I guess I'm... supposed to thank you now.”

 

Just imagine what The Colonel would say to _that!_

 

Morton only smiles.

 

“No, you and I are even.” He gives you a little pat on the shoulder. “Doctor.”

 

_Doctor._

 

You want to smile back at this man that is apparently your friend.

 

* * *

 

 

They have put you in a room all your own. “Guest quarters”. They do not call it a cell. They do not call it the brig. But neither will they let you leave unaccompanied.

 

They have given you new clothing in an appallingly tiny size. Something deep within you, the part of you that will always remember the pain, even when your mind forgets, knows that the clothing should not fit you.

 

But fit it does.

 

You bathe and you don't recognize your own body. You look at yourself _(it must be you, “Doctor”)_ in their mirror, and you don't recognize your own face.

 

But they make sure you always know what time it is, what is happening, where you are, what will happen next. There is always someone to talk to you, if you want. There is always someone outside your door. A guard, for your own safety, they say.

 

Of course they _say_ that.

 

And you are not lonely. People come to talk to you. Not just Nelson, Morton and Crane, but others you don't recognize. You don't talk back to any of these others unless pressed.

 

Your favorite topic of conversation is food and coffee.

 

Crane is on his way to see you. To see this new, clean, healing version of you, _whoever you are._

 

You look at yourself in the mirror again. The Seaview's doctor has given you a cream to apply to “that thing on your cheek”. It _was_ a burn. It _was_ infected. It was neglected and left to heal _badly._

 

One, two, three crimes for which The Colonel is to blame.

 

How many more are there?

 

Your wrists itch. He will give you cream for those scars, too.

 

_What if you want the scars? What if you want to keep them?_

 

No, impossible. They want you to look a certain way.

 

Then, that knock on the door.

 

Oh, yes, they knock! And they wait for you to call out to them, “Come in!”

 

And sometimes you do. But many has been the time that you have refused to say a word, refused to admit your caller. You try to exercise what little power you have.

 

But they never leave.

 

You do not admit Crane today.

 

And, naturally, he does not leave.

 

Instead, he knocks once more, then glides into the room with a smile. He closes the door behind him.

 

“Doctor,” he greets you. “I didn't wake you, did I?”

 

You always know what time it is, thanks to the clock on the table opposite your bed. It is 0902. Early enough that his question makes sense, late enough to ensure that the answer is no.

 

Although, had it been 0402, you doubt if he would have been any less wide awake and eager, or any less willing to barge in on you. The man was a ball of easy, joyous energy when he wasn't fighting for his life.

 

Anyway, you have to answer him, so you shrug,

 

“No, I was awake.”

 

“Good.” He sits down at your small metal desk, without asking permission. The space is yours... but not _yours._ “How are you this morning?”

 

They want you to be polite, to treat your captors well. _But not too well._ There is a strange balance they want you to maintain, and you often fail.

 

The simple word, “Fine”, usually satisfies Crane. Morton sees through it, and Nelson almost takes it as a personal offense. You haven't figured out what to say to either of them.

 

But Crane will accept “Fine”, so “Fine” it is.

 

“Good, good,” he smiles. “Say, Doctor, I brought you something today.”

 

Your blood runs cold, but you remind yourself that Crane wouldn't be the one to kill you. He would leave that to Nelson.

 

So... whatever he has, is something “good”. Something meant to appeal to you.

 

_No._

 

Something meant to appeal to Doctor Anton Weber. The only thing that appeals to _you_ is coffee.

 

“What is it?” you ask, trying to sound pleasantly interested. Instead, your voice is strained, and it cracks a bit.

 

You've heard enough pleasant conversation lately, you should be better at imitating it.

 

But Crane is much more forgiving than either Nelson or Morton, and he gives you an almost knowing smile as he presents you with something strange:

 

A photograph.

 

You take it in your still sore hand, and frown.

 

“Now... you probably don't remember that day. But it was a pretty big deal,” Crane explains.

 

Smiling, colorless faces. You recognize Nelson immediately. He has his hand on someone's shoulder, and a proud grin on his face. You don't recognize either of the other men. One is middle-aged, with bright, mischievous eyes. One is younger, shyly hanging back.

 

You aren't sure why he wants you to look at this photograph of Nelson and two strangers, and your confusion is evident.

 

“Oh, well,” he moves to stand behind you. You don't flinch from him, of course. You've never wanted to do that. He points, “See, here's the Admiral. And over there is Berlitz.”

 

He has forgotten to identify the man in the middle.

 

“This was the day the three of you made the breakthrough that led to the EC-12 Project. You see it in the background?”

 

All you see in the background is a chalkboard covered with hastily scrawled gibberish.

 

He is waiting for you to speak, and you raise your eyes to meet his.

 

“But who is the third man?” you ask.

 

He is surprised for a second, but is quickly overcome with strangely affectionate laughter.

 

“The man in the middle there is one of the best minds of the twentieth century. You.”

 

_-You?!_

 

At once, you leap up, taking the photograph over to the mirror with you.

 

You?!

 

Crane follows you, and his reflection in the mirror is cautiously hopeful.

 

“Morton said... add 25 pounds and take away _that thing on my cheek..._ ” you mutter. And here was visual evidence of same. Perhaps even more than 25 pounds.

 

_The same face?!_

 

A similar face, you will grant him that... but the eyes are all wrong.

 

_You aren't... sure... if you can believe it._

 

“Do you remember Berlitz?” Crane asks gently. “The two of you were close. He was almost like... a son to you.”

 

Berlitz. The young one. The shy one.

 

(The _name..._ _)_

 

“I don't know,” you shake your head. “No. I don't think so.”

 

Crane meets your eyes in the reflection.

 

“We... we haven't been able to contact him, Doctor. We don't know whether he's alive or not.”

 

You peer into the face of Berlitz. The two of you were close. He was like a son to you.

 

You wait for a spark of recognition.

 

_There is nothing._

 

“No,” you turn from the mirror, hand the photograph back to Crane. “I don't remember any of it. The man in the photograph doesn't even look like me.”

 

“Well, this was five or six years ago,” he says with that same smile. “We've all gotten a little older.”

 

_Other things have happened to some of you as well, but he doesn't mention that._

 

He sits back down at the desk, and you return to the edge of your bed.

 

“Doctor... do you know what's in those documents we retrieved from Tiller?”

 

You turn humorless, irritated eyes on Crane. What a completely idiotic question. He would have you believe that it was you who wrote them. But he knows as well as you, as well as anyone on the ship, that of _course_ you _don't know_ what's in the damned documents.

 

He laughs when he sees your expression.

 

“Sorry, Doctor. I suppose... it'll be awhile. But suffice it to say, we're all greatly indebted to you.”

 

You just look at him, and his smile turns shy, and he looks at the floor (no... they call it a “deck” here).

 

You wonder when you eat next.

 

One of them gave you a book, a tattered, water-damaged paperback. A Night to Remember, about the sinking of a great ship called the _Titanic_. The man, Kowalski, had sworn to you that it was a true story, but you strongly doubt it. You'd only glanced at the tome before, idly paging through it, sniffing the pages. Breathing in that combination of mildew and dust and age.

 

The book held no interest for you before... but now, for some reason, you long to get back to it.

 

Perhaps you will pen your own novel, about the sinking of a great ship called the Flying Sub. Since you're such a talented writer.

 

Crane makes no movement to leave.

 

_They always do this._ They always wait for awhile, watching you but not watching you. They want you to “remember”, to suddenly burst out of yourself with an entirely new mind. To be Doctor Anton Weber, to whom they are all greatly indebted.

 

_You disappoint them every time._

 

You wonder what they will give you for lunch.

 

You wonder if, after _all_ this, they will _still_ kill you.

 

* * *

 

 

_Crane is not leaving._

 

He has carefully laid the photograph on the surface of the otherwise empty desk. He means for you to have it.

 

He has finished his business, but _he is_ _still_ _not leaving._

 

There are times when you want to scream.

 

And this is quickly becoming one of them.

 

Your eyes snap up, meet his. His expression is so calculatedly bland that it is all you can do to keep your tone level.

 

But you must remain calm and quiet. You mustn't yell or make a scene.

 

Because, that guard who is there for your “safety”...

 

“Crane, you owe me the truth,” you manage to say.

 

His eyes darken, just a _bit-_

 

But he doesn't speak.

 

“I saved your life down there, Crane. And if you Americans are so _indebted_ to me, _you owe me the truth._ ”

 

“The truth about what, Doctor?”

 

You run a frustrated hand through your hair. You clap your palms down on the tops of your bony thighs, expel an angry breath. _These are strange behaviors, and you realize it._

 

“ _Is_ Nelson going to kill me, or _not_?!”

 

As soon as the words are out, you realize how unlikely it is that he will be honest with you. He wants to be your friend, he wants to see you happy and healthy and well-fed... but he has the same loyalty to Nelson that you had to your Colonel. He will look you right in that unfamiliar scarred face, and lie.

 

You shouldn't have even asked.

 

Because when he says,

 

“Doctor... of course not!”

 

It is with all the conviction of a man giving testimony before God himself.

 

_And you just can't believe him._

 

* * *

 

 

But you wish you could believe him.

 

There is talk of sending you to a hospital. An American hospital, of course. There is talk of psychiatrists, counselors, doctors of all sorts.

 

As the Titanic sank, Thomas Andrews was asked, as he prepared for his death with unblinking, unresponsive resignation,

 

“Aren't you even going to have a try for it, Mr. Andrews?”

 

This Andrews reminds you of Crane. And you recall what Crane had said in his version of that same moment, about how people are the same everywhere.

 

The book would have you believe that strange statement to be so.

 

People are leaving now; a few of them have come to say goodbye. Kowalski urges you to keep the book. So now you have two material possessions that are not on loan to you, and only one of them has any real value.

 

The photograph is your bookmark. You idly look at it, look into those smiling faces. _Nelson Weber Berlitz._

 

Nelson, who is here.

 

Weber who is gone, though no one will admit it.

 

Berlitz, who may be gone as well.

 

_Like a son to you._

 

And...

 

Impossibly, his face has changed. You don't know how, or when it happened. Did they change the photograph? They couldn't have. You have been here all the time, and everything else about it is the same.

 

_Except Berlitz._

 

He has that same shy smile. That same face. That same posture...

 

but _t_ _he eyes._

 

The eyes are almost pleading, aren't they?!

 

He has a secret. He wants to speak, but he cannot. He _dares not_.

 

And...

 

is it

 

 

 

_possible_

 

 

 

that you _have_

 

seen those eyes

 

_before?!_

 

 

Unbidden, uneasily, you recall the color

 

_green._

 

* * *

 

 

You don't know if you will go easily. They are coming to take you somewhere, and your first thought is to resist.

 

Your second thought is to find something, anything, to end it before Nelson can. But they've left you with nothing. They cut your food for you, they won't let you use a fork, all the cups are metal and unbreakable.

 

Your third thought, and the strangest one you've ever had, is that you will just go with them. Because you can trust them, and they only want what's best for you... _and they are your friends._

 

Your fourth thought is that you will resist.

 

“Zimmermann” has become a curse word around the ship. And you are secretly glad, very glad, that to you, he was never Zimmermann. He was, and always shall be, The Colonel.

 

They won't take him from you.

 

But now, you have more material possessions. Things that had belonged to Weber. Things brought by his people.

 

Clothing that doesn't fit. Books you don't understand. More documents, more damnable _documents_ written in a hand that you _suppose_ resembles the one you use now. But what is written is a mystery.

 

You dress in Weber's clothing and you feel as though you have robbed a grave.

 

You have gained a few pounds and you can walk quite well with a cane that apparently also belonged to Weber. Weber was not a young man, and he had a “twinge in his spine” that came and went with the seasons. He was overweight, and he wasn't particularly healthy.

 

He was not a wiry, athletic thief who could fight off six men.

 

Weber rarely left his home. Weber had built a laboratory onsite. Weber was an eccentric. Weber had a brain that could be easily snapped in two, and hastily repaired so that nothing of Weber remained.

 

Nelson “knows” that Weber is still “in there”.

 

But you don't think much of this Weber, if the truth were known. You would be happier if he stayed buried. His life doesn't have much to recommend it.

 

* * *

 

 

Making the decision hastily, you don't resist when they come.

 

And Morton, who is now as healed as he is ever going to be, is happy to carry your “belongings” for you.

 

Morton and Crane are out of uniform. Crane tells you that they are getting ready to go on leave.

 

This probably means you will never see them again.

 

And this...

 

_grieves you._

 

For they truly were friends to you after all, weren't they? Not only because they saved your life, but because they showed you kindness, and affection. Because they saw you as a man, not as a tool.

 

And because they did not torture you into insanity and eventual, horrific, slow death.

 

They are, truly... the best friends you have ever had.

 

Nelson would have you believe that he and Berlitz _(green)_ were the best friends you've ever had... and Nelson, to his credit, has been kind enough.

 

But you still wonder if he will kill you. After Morton and Crane are gone, after the ship is deserted...

 

You are in a large room with windows, overlooking calm waters. There is a dock, and a building. Men bustle about, laughing and chatting with each other.

 

Morton sets down your bag.

 

“Well, Lee, hadn't you better be on your way? That is, if you don't want to miss your flight?” Nelson asks pleasantly.

 

“I can't do that,” replies Crane with a grin. “My mother would have the head of every man in that airport if I wasn't on that plane.”

 

“She'd have the right, too. Sending her that message...” Nelson shakes his head. “She'll be glad to see you in one piece.”

 

“It's not too bad being in one piece, either.”

 

Now Crane extends a hand to you.

 

“Thanks to you, of course, Doctor.”

 

You hesitate. Your wrists no longer itch, but now there is a constant dull ache that makes it hard to use your hands.

 

_...Which is just an excuse._

 

Of course the _truth_ is that you don't want to say goodbye to Crane.

 

But you take his hand, you feel the firm grip, and you hope your expression is pleasant enough.

 

“No... thank _you_ , Crane,” you insist, shakily.

 

“Goodbye, Doctor. You're going to be alright.”

 

_Americans. Deceitful to the last._

 

Crane nods to Nelson, and then puts a friendly hand on Morton's shoulder.

 

“See you in two weeks!” he says.

 

“If not sooner, Lee,” Morton warns. “Now that the admiral's got those _documents..._ ”

 

Crane frowns.

 

“Mr. Morton, I'm only sorry you aren't coming with me. My mother has always _loved_ your sense of humor.”

 

Morton smiles.

 

“Next time, Lee.”

 

And Crane is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Nelson and Morton are discussing something quietly. Morton has a plane of his own to catch, and presently, he approaches you.

 

“You gonna be alright, Doctor?” is the surprising question he asks you.

 

You turn to him, stunned, forgetting to look pleasant. He can see the fear in your eyes, along with something else, boiling just under the surface.

 

_You don't know._

 

He tries to smile.

 

“Well, I've, uh... been to the facility. I thought I'd check it out for you. I think you're gonna like it.”

 

_The facility._ Whatever that means.

 

“Just the fresh air alone will be good for you. You'll be back to your old self in no time.”

 

It is a stupid thing to say. It is a tremendously stupid thing for Morton to say, and he seems to know it.

 

“I _don't know_ if I'm going to be alright,” you admit quietly, answering his first question. “I'm so afraid.”

 

“Well, you've already been through Hell, Doctor. Don't forget that.”

 

You've been through _something_. If Morton would call it Hell, you won't argue.

 

“Please...” you whisper, “Please, tell me the truth. Is Nelson going to kill me?”

 

He smiles at you as he has never smiled at you before.

 

“No.”

 

“Can I believe that?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

You swallow thickly. You nod. Tears threaten to spill out onto (that thing on your) cheek.

 

Morton has to leave.

 

_You are a wretched, bent, bony, scarred, ugly, old heap of a man._

 

And to his everlasting credit, he does not flinch from you as you all but throw yourself into his arms and weep onto his jacket.

 

When you pull away _(you pull away, not him)_ , he only nods.

 

“Take care,” he says.

 

“Thank you,” you whisper.

 

And you are alone with Nelson.

 

Morton says you will survive the encounter.

 

You...

 

_believe him._

 

* * *

 

 

He is showing you a map of “the facility”.

 

“And, you see, it has a swimming pool, and a tennis court... well, of course, tennis was never your game, Anton.”

 

He should know better than you.

 

“And they have the best doctors in the country, and round the clock care. No matter what you need, you'll get it.”

 

“I appreciate it, Admiral,” you say stiffly.

 

_Oh... you forgot._ He wants you to call him “Harry”.

 

“Harry,” you quickly recover.

 

Nelson folds up the map and sits down on his desk. He looks at you levelly.

 

“You know, I could kill Zimmermann with my bare hands for what he did to you. I really could.” He pauses. “They captured him. I wasn't sure whether or not to tell you.”

 

_Your Colonel?!_

 

_Captured?!_

 

He sees the shock on your face.

 

“He'll be tried, of course. For... I don't know how many deaths. Along with all his other crimes. But damn it, Anton... no matter what they do to him, if they lock him up for a hundred years, if they draw and quarter him... It's not going to be _enough!_ ”

 

_Your Colonel..._

 

You could have prevented this. They never would have gotten him if you had just come back with those documents.

 

“Will they execute him?!” you cry.

 

“Well, I don't know. That's up to the tribunal.”

 

“Colonel...” you whisper.

 

_You could have saved him._

 

But you _didn't._

 

* * *

 

 

You

 

_(couldn't have possibly saved him, look at yourself)_

 

_(left him alone, left him to die, you were the one, he trusted you)!_

 

 

 

He

 

_(set you up to fail, he wanted to get rid of you)_

 

_(counted on you, he gave you the mission, he needed you)!_

 

 

 

You

 

_(don't owe him a damned thing)_

 

_(owe him everything)!_

 

 

 

He

 

_(is getting what he deserves, what he did to you and Bjordahl is unforgivable)_

_  
(was only trying to save his country)!_

 

 

And now

 

_(he is going to face justice, and the world will be a better place)_

 

_(he is going to die, and the world will suffer for it)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

You collapse into the chair by Nelson's desk, bury your head in your hands. You frantically rub the scar with your thumb.

 

“Anton,” Nelson says, crouching by your side. “What is it?”

 

“I... _I want to save him!_ ” you shriek.

 

“You want to save him?” Nelson repeats. “You want to save... Zimmermann?”

 

“But I shouldn't, should I?! It's what all of you say!”

 

Nelson has a companionable hand on your knee. You don't flinch from him now, either.

 

“Well, Anton...” he says gently, “There's no shame in having compassion for another human being. Even one who's put you through what Zimmermann has put you through. It's damned admirable. But the man has to face justice.”

 

You swallow.

 

“But his was... the first face I ever saw.”

 

Nelson nods.

 

“It was just him and me... _forever._ For my entire life,” you recall. “He brought so much... pain. But he stopped it, just as quickly. He only brought the pain when it was necessary.”

 

“Anton, pain like that is never necessary,” Nelson whispers.

 

“ _So you say!_ So you say, and so says Crane, and Morton, and everyone else!”

 

“Have you considered that there may be some truth to what we all say?”

 

_(Of course you have)_

 

“Yes. I've... _considered_ many things, lately.” You blink away the tears, “But I don't know what to _believe._ ”

 

“Well, the important thing is that you're keeping an open mind. Zimmermann took a lot from you, but I think...”

 

He doesn't know what he thinks. This becomes apparent when he turns a sad smile on you.

 

“Shall we go?”

 

* * *

 

The sun is just as bright as it was that day outside the hotel, but not nearly as hot. There is a lovely, salty, cool breeze to temper it.

 

You stand on the dock with “your” luggage by your side, and fight the urge to kick the suitcase into the ocean.

 

You want to ask Nelson what you're waiting for, but he anticipates your question (just like The Colonel did).

 

“The car should be here any minute.”

 

You nod.

 

_(He could still be getting ready to kill you--)_

 

“So, you'll... come with me, then?” you ask as though you couldn't care less what he did. But in truth, since you left the claustrophobic safety of the ship, you feel terribly exposed and vulnerable. And if the answer is no, you don't know what you'll _do-_

 

“Anton, of _course_ I'm _coming with you_ ,” he says, almost chiding you.

 

_(Thank god...)_

 

“Well, if you want,” you reply.

 

He laughs, as though you have just told a magnificent joke.

 

“Now _that's_ the kind of stubborn answer I'd expect from you!” he says through laughter. “Anton Weber never asked for help from anyone. He sat back and let them wear themselves out for their own sake!”

 

So... now you are acting like Anton Weber.

 

You wonder if this information makes you happy.

 

The sun has slipped behind a cloud, and you wonder if it will rain. You are certain that, at some point in your _(life?)_ , you have seen rain. You have seen countless things _(besides The Colonel's face smiling down on you)_.

 

You wonder, as a sleek black car pulls up, if any of the things you have seen in “your” fifty years have mattered. Have meant anything.

 

“Here we are,” Nelson says cheerfully. He is still chuckling a bit. He is convinced that “you” are in there and it's only a matter of time before “you” are back.

 

“You” know you will disappoint him, as you have disappointed him every minute since you have arrived. You know you will go on disappointing him.

 

It is... _your way._

 

The driver, one of Nelson's men, opens the trunk, and you bring the suitcase over yourself. It is a snug fit, and you grunt a little bit as you try to manipulate the bag so it will lie flat.

 

Nelson is on the other side of the car, and he is talking in a gentle voice, one just above a whisper. You can't make out a word he says.

 

You hear a car door open. Footfalls on the pavement, slow at first, tentative, almost fearful.

 

The bag is at an angle. You aren't sure if the trunk will close.

 

You sigh exasperatedly. You aren't used to doing things for yourself... but you don't want to ask for help.

 

_You are stubborn._

 

But with another sigh, you slam the trunk. It doesn't exactly lock.

 

_It's just going to have to do._

 

You walk around the side of the car (with the cane, because there is that promised “twinge” in your back)...

 

...And you look directly into the bright, sparkling blue eyes of your daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Anna._

* * *

 


End file.
